The Ember Covenant
by Hanyolo
Summary: Dragons have returned to Skyrim, and three unlikely heroes - a wandering mercenary, a disgraced scoundrel, and a misanthropic sorceress - find themselves caught up in the winding threads of destiny. Threatened by the end of time itself, they must unite in order to stoke Skyrim's dying flame. Continued in The Flames of Contempt.
1. Home

_Imperial archers sure can hit a moving target_, Hadvar thought, watching their arrows find their mark. The fleeing horse thief slammed to the ground, two bolts in his back, wheezing his last few breaths. Not a single soul in the courtyard paid him a second thought.

A strange calmness wafted through the air that even the untimely fate of the late Lokir of Rorikstead could not puncture. Hadvar could scarcely believe it when Ulfric Stormcloak himself, bound and gagged yet remaining resplendent regardless, stepped down from the carriage and walked purposefully to the gathering crowd of the condemned. Hadvar's voice trembled slightly as he read the Jarl's name aloud, knowing full well that he was an accessory to the death of one of Skyrim's last, greatest heroes. This man should not die in Helgen: it was barely more than an Imperial-fortified village. He should face trial in Solitude, or the Imperial city itself, and let the Elder Council decide his fate.

Ulfric did not even acknowledge Hadvar as he strode past. The same was not true for his lieutenant, Ralof of Riverwood, who glared accusatorially at Hadvar as he stalked over to join his king. Hadvar had known Ralof: they had grown tall and strong together, brothers all but in name, former friends separated by the hatreds bred of civil war. Just like countless others across Skyrim. _Ulfric is tearing our land apart_, he wanted to plead to Ralof as he passed, _can't you see_? But like any disciplined soldier of the Empire, he simply read the accused man's name aloud and kept his anguish to himself.

Hadvar did not have time to comment on the death of a kinsman before the last passenger stepped down from the carriage. He looked down at his list to see that it had ended with Lokir. He could feel the disdain emanating from his commanding officer at his left, a brash imperial captain, as she ordered the prisoner forward. Hadvar opened his mouth and formed his curiosity into words.

"Who are you?"

The prisoner was fairly tall, with sandy-brown hair that fell matted around wiry shoulders. His face was gaunt and guarded, with a trace of a beard, his jawline taut like a coiled spring, distinctly Nordic. His soft green eyes and slender, outwardly-curved nose, however, bespoke of some other blood, as did his height - below average for a Nord. He was young: pride born of youth dominated his visage, but did not completely mask his cold fear. Over his right eye he wore distinctive blue war paint, two jagged lines that zig-zagged from his forehead down one cheek.

The man uttered his name. It was a short name, quick and harsh. "Jakt."

"Seems he was caught trying to cross the border, just before throwing in with the Stormcloaks," muttered the soldier who had escorted the prisoners. Hadvar looked at the young man and tried to keep the pity off his face. Perhaps he had simply been trying to return home and had lacked the coin to pay for the cross. It was not a crime befitting of death, but luck, it seemed, was not on this boy's side. He turned to his captain, uncertainty thick in his voice.

"He's not on the list,"

The Captain shrugged, her eyes cold as steel upon his. "Forget your list. He goes to the block, like the rest."

Hadvar heard a sharp intake of breath, but he could not meet the young man's eyes. "By your orders, captain." At the last minute he looked up and said, "You picked a bad time to come to Skyrim, kinsman. I'm sorry. At least you'll die here, at home."

* * *

_A Nord's last thoughts should be of home_, Ralof had said to Lokir and Jakt. As he stepped towards the block, Jakt found cynicism a better comfort. _I have no home,_ he thought bitterly, _certainly not with the Empire that has forsaken me, and my ancestors_. He had come to Skyrim to find one, but the Empire was about to take that fervent dream with the swing of an axe. The irony of his fate danced around him, mocking and untouchable.

He marched behind the captain as he joined the other condemned prisoners. A grey haired imperial, clearly one of high rank judging by his gilded armor, was face to face with Ulfric. Ralof had given his name as they had entered Helgen, but Jakt could not remember it. His voice rang hard as he first addressed Ulfric, and then the crowd: he spoke of restoring the peace, but Jakt did not listen to his lies. Instead, he thought he heard a faint roar, or a screech, coming from beyond the mountains. No one paid it any mind.

Soon his little speech was over, and the first Stormcloak took the block, his nose high and his manner brusque, as if his own execution simply bored him. When he spoke the name of Talos aloud, cutting off the priestess as she spoke his last rites, Jakt silently applauded his audacity to thumb his nose at the Empire, and their Thalmor allies, even at the moment of his death. The Headsman was quick, at least. Growing up on the streets of the imperial city, Jakt had seen the High Elves root out Talos worship on more than one occasion. It was often a gruesome spectacle, much more so than a quick decapitation. As soldiers from both sides shouted in defiance or approval, he heard Ralof mutter a quick word after the axe came down and the man's head rolled into the bucket: "As fearless in death as he was in life."

Then it was Jakt's turn, and as he approached the block, he thought he heard the same roar, louder this time, over the pounding of his heart in his ears. It was unlike any he'd ever heard, somehow ancient and primeval, and when others began to mutter and glance about, he knew that he was not the only one privy to the sound. At least I won't die a crazy man, he thought as the captain's armored boot forced his foot forward. Hesitant to gaze upon the severed head in the bucket below, he chanced one final glance up into the headsman's hooded face, but his eyes were cold, with no mercy to be found. Helgen's central watchtower loomed in the background as the axe rose. He felt calm, despite the black taste of fear that choked his throat. I will die in Skyrim, that much is true.

All of a sudden, a shadow filled the air, along with the leathery sound of flapping wings. Something gigantic and silhouetted landed on the tower, shrouded by some otherworldly force. The ground rumbled as it landed, as the air crackled with a dozen gasps and cries. The axe faltered and then disappeared. Before Jakt could get a better look at the creature, it opened its mouth and shouted some phrase in an indecipherable tongue. There was a crack of thunder and some unseen wall of pure force blew him off of the block and sent him hurtling to the ground. His head clunked against hard, cold dirt and everything went black.

_…Mommy?_

_Yes, child?_

_The soldiers, why are they leaving?_

_They are going home._

_Is daddy going home too?_

_Yes, child._

_Why can't we go with him?_

_Because this is our home._

_No it isn't. It doesn't feel like home_.

"Wake up, brother!"

The blond Stormcloak, Ralof, hoisted Jakt to his feet. Somehow he'd managed to free his hands. "Come on kinsman, the Gods won't give us another chance!"

Jakt spared a glance at the monster sitting atop the tower. Dark clouds swirled around a colossal, horned head, black as night except for two beady red eyes. Reaching out its arms it revealed two massive wings so wide they seemed to blot out the sun. Its body was as dark as its head, with scales that looked tougher than any steel, and horned ridges that erupted from its spine all down its massive back. It opened its cavernous mouth to reveal teeth the size of a man's arm.

Jakt decided he'd had enough of a glimpse, so he turned and raced after Ralof. "Quick!" shouted the fair-haired Nord, "Into the tower!" As they sprinted away he thought he heard a low rumble, as if the beast were speaking. All of a sudden cries of "Kill it! Kill the monster!" turned to screams, as the air crackled and heated. Jakt did not need to look back to know it must have breathed fire. He found it awkward and difficult to run with both hands tied together, but he followed Ralof at a dead sprint into the nearest guard tower, entering just in time to witness one Stormcloak tending to the wounded body of another. Ulfric Stormcloak stood over them, his hands and face free, turning away only when Ralof addressed him directly.

"Jarl Ulfric!" Ralof began, "What is that thing? Could the legends be true?"

The Jarl fixed an icy gaze on his subordinate. "Legends don't burn down villages." His voice was rough and deep, like a boulder rolling against stone. He turned to regard Jakt; when their eyes met, Jakt thought he saw something, some flicker in the man's eye. Then the beast roared again, and Ralof grabbed hold of Jakt's arm, shouting into his face, "Quickly! Up the tower!"

The blond nord dashed up the stairs. As he followed, Jakt chanced a quick look backwards to see Ulfric's eyes still fixed on him. There was no time to wonder, however, because right as Ralof reached the first landing, a great crack split the air, followed by a crunch. Jakt watched in horror as the wall exploded inwards, throwing Ralof to the floor. The monster's head filled the newly-created hole as it opened its jaws to take in a great breath, rumbled in its imperceptible language, and sent a great gout of fire pouring forth. Jakt threw himself backwards just in time to avoid the deadly flame, but the white-hot fire danced in his vision, blinding him. He could only sit there, curled into a fetal position as the fiery barrage continued. He could feel the heat as it melted the wood and the stone that made up the second floor landing. Then, it was gone.

By some stroke of divine providence, Ralof was unhurt, albeit covered in soot; the force of the exploding wall had thrown him clear of the beast's flame. Jakt struggled upright. Ralof ran to the window and gestured frantically. "See the inn on the other side? If we can make it there, it's a straight shot to the fort. Jump through and just keep moving!"

Jakt looked downwards to the first floor, but Ulfric Stormcloak was long gone. He shot Ralof a desperate look, unable to find the words to express his pulsating fear, but his fellow Nord simply grinned, nodded his head and patted him on the shoulder. Terror almost took control then, but somehow Jakt forced it down, turned to the window, and took a running leap. The soft hay roof rushed up to meet him and helped to slow the fall, but he landed hard regardless, plunging through the roof and onto the second floor of the inn. As he landed he forced himself into a roll, absorbing the brunt of the impact, but his bound hands made his body's trajectory hard to control, and his awkward roll turned into more of a tumble.

Once again Jakt forced himself to his feet, shrugging off the pain, before slumping desperately around the second floor of the burning, dilapidated inn. The staircase was in shambles, so he dropped through a hole in the floor. Ralof had not followed him, but there was no time to go back, he had to get out of the burning building…

Outside, he found himself facing a motley crew of Imperial soldiers and archers. Several yards away, in the middle of the courtyard, a young boy crouched crying in front of a scorched, broken man, whose leg was bent back at an impossible angle. Somehow he was still moving, waving the boy away frantically, tears of pain in his eyes. The Nord soldier from earlier, who had looked on Jakt with kind eyes, stood near the burning inn, his sword drawn. He was gesturing just as frantically at the little boy, crying his name, trying to save him. All of a sudden the monster landed in front of the man and the child and sucked in its breath. The boy, finally understanding, turned and ran, and Jakt could only watch as flame from the beast's mouth engulfed the man. He looked frantically for Ralof, or one of the other blue-clad Stormcloaks, but they were nowhere to be seen. Out of options, he followed the remaining soldiers behind the cover of a burning house. The familiar Nord soldier turned to him then, his eyes flashing as he recognized him.

"Still alive, prisoner?" He asked incredulously, "Follow me if you want to stay that way!" He turned to one of his fellow soldiers. "Gunnar, take care of the boy. I have to join General Tullius in the defense."

"Gods guide you, Hadvar," grunted the soldier as he scooped up the crying child.

Hadvar turned to Jakt. "Come here," he ordered, "and hold out your hands." He fumbled with a knife, reached out and cut his bonds. Jakt recoiled as if stung, surprised by this unforeseen kindness.

"I think you just earned yourself a pardon," he growled as he turned away. "Quickly! Stay close to me!"

Saved by an Imperial soldier? Once again irony reared its ugly head. Jakt followed him through another burning building, then around another close to a stone wall. There was a tense moment when, all of a sudden, the beast landed on the wall. Both men threw themselves against the stone, waiting as it breathed a fresh gout of flame at a pair of fleeing Stormcloaks in the courtyard… Jakt closed his eyes, certain to be roasted alive, but when he opened them again the fiend was gone: it had not seen them. He had not time to breathe a sigh of relief before Hadvar wrenched him to his feet.

As the two man ran through Helgen, buildings burned and people screamed. The beast flapped overhead, rending the village with fire and mayhem. In the central courtyard a group of newly freed Stormcloaks frantically waged battle with some Imperial soldiers, and the sound of steel upon steel joined the cacophony of the strangely surreal yet deadly attack. Hadvar cursed their foolishness and chose to ignore the fight, so Jakt followed him; besides, he was still unarmed. He was unsure if he could bring himself to kill this new savior, even if he was a soldier of the Empire. All of a sudden the two entered through a newly toppled stone archway to find Helgen's keep, separated by a small, open courtyard.

Suddenly, a beleaguered Ralof appeared. He had armed himself with a small war axe. Hadvar screeched to a stop and called out to him. "Ralof! You damn traitor, out of the way!"

"We're escaping, Hadvar," Ralof cried out in response. "You can't stop us this time!"

There was a tense moment as the two eyed each other, but when the monster roared overhead, Hadvar cursed again and lowered his blade. "Fine," he spat, "but I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!"

The two ran in opposite directions. Both called out for him to follow, but Jakt quickly made up his mind. He turned on his heels and ran behind Ralof towards the main gates of the keep. There was a pang of guilt and uncertainty then – after all, Hadvar had freed him, and clearly regretted his misfortune. But Ralof was a Stormcloak, and everyone knew that the Stormcloaks fought for Skyrim's independence, and besides, Jakt had just come very close to losing his head on an Imperial chopping block for a crime hardly worthy of a fortnight in prison.

Jakt and Ralof forced open the gate and piled into the keep. They found themselves in a large circular room, decorated with Imperial Legion colors. The battle raging outside became little more than a series of muffled shouts. Ralof ran over to a body next to a table that wore the blue of the Stormcloaks.

"We'll meet again in Sovngarde, brother," he muttered, crouching over his slain comrade. Jakt knew little of his people and their religion, but his blood boiled at the sight. He stood there, stony faced, unsure of what to say.

Soon enough, Ralof stood. "Looks like we're the only ones who made it," he breathed. Then he shook his head sadly.

"What was that thing?" asked Jakt. His voice felt hoarse: he could not tell if it was from disuse, or breathing too much smoke.

Ralof looked at him with wide eyes. "It was a dragon! No doubt about it. Just like the children's tales and the legends," He took another deep breath. "The harbingers of the end times."

Jakt said nothing. What was there to say? His mother had never told him those stories. She had barely told him anything before she died. But he knew about dragons, he had heard the rumors. The dragons were all dead, they died long ago: the last dragon stood as a statue in the Imperial city, frozen in stone for two centuries, the only reminder left of the days when the Septims ruled the Empire. Back when it was worth anything.

"Ralof," he spoke, stirring the man from his fears, "We need to get moving."

Ralof shook his head again to clear it, and nodded. Then he took one look at Jakt and laughed, a short little bark. "Not like that, you're not."

Jakt looked down at himself. He was still dressed in the prison rags. Ralof had a point – he wasn't about to slay any dragons dressed like this.

"You'd better take Gunjar's things," Ralof started slowly, "Where he's gone… well, let's just say he won't need them anymore."

Jakt looked him in the eye, and cleared his throat. "Tell me… where did you say he went?"

Ralof's eyebrows shot up in surprised. "To Sovngarde. Shor's bones! Do you mean to tell me you've never heard of Sovngarde?"

Jakt raised his hands defensively. "I grew up in Cyrodil."

Ralof continued to look at him as if he was daft, but he shrugged. "Sovngarde is where the sons and daughters of Skyrim go when they fall in this life." He paused. "They say that mead flows in rivers from a never-ending source high in the mountains, and that the heroes of old test their might on frosted plains, then drink to never-ending friendship in a beer hall larger than a mountain!" He laughed his short bark again. "Of course, the only way there is a sword through your belly or an axe through your neck. But sooner or later, Sovngarde awaits all valiant Nords." He looked to Gunjar, and Jakt thought he detected a hint of jealousy in Ralof's otherwise grim tone.

Jakt rubbed his own neck, grateful his head was still attached to his body. He did not yet understand these people, his kin, with their blind courage, love of battle, and superstitious ways. In the slums of the Imperial city, reckless bravery was like to get one knifed in the back. He was in no hurry to get to Sovngarde.

Once Jakt had dressed, they pressed on through the castle. It was eerie and quiet: Ralof was right, no one else had thought to enter the keep. Either that, or they were all dead, killed by the dragon. Jakt paused only to take a sword from where it hung on a weapon rack in one of the barrack rooms. Ralof looked disdainfully at him, for it was an Imperial weapon, with a wide blade and the Septim dragon sigil carved into its hilt. Regardless, it was good steel, well sharpened and balanced. Most Nords liked to charge in with abandon, wielding greatswords or battleaxes the length of a grown man, but Jakt had learned to fight a little differently.

"You are new to Skyrim, then?" Ralof asked after a moment, as they descended through the keep.

"I grew up in the Imperial City, although I spent time walking Cyrodil."

Ralof smiled, but it was not a happy one. "So you have seen the cruelty of the Empire before." He gestured at the room they found themselves in: several cages sat against the walls, and an assortment of crude, pointed and serrated objects – knives, shivs, embalming tools – lay on a table, smeared in what looked like blood. One of the cages held a dead man dressed in bloodstained robes.

All of a sudden, there were voices, followed by the heavy footsteps of armored feet. Three men entered the room, legionnaires all of them. They skidded to a halt when they beheld the two blue-clad Nords. Ralof drew his axe and bared his teeth like a snarling bear.

"You Stormcloak bastards," began the one in the middle. He was barrel-chested and squat, with a split lip and oily hair. Faded blood stained his gauntlets and his leather armor, and the sword in his hand was as ugly as he was, with a harsh, serrated blade, and a slight greenish hue. Judging by the keys dangling at his hip, this was the gaoler, and most likely the torturer as well.

"You thought you might escape the axe, did you?" the gaoler hissed. The soldiers to his left and right gripped their swords, with cold eyes and lips pressed tightly shut. "We'll send you to Oblivion ourselves then!"

Ralof gave a terrible cry and charged forward, scattering the three. Jakt loped after him, keeping his center of gravity low, with his sword in his left. They were three against two – he needed to even the odds quickly before their enemy overwhelmed them. He spotted the gaoler, who had leapt back in surprise following Ralof's reckless charge. Jakt swung his blade diagonally towards the man, a weak strike to test the man's defenses. The man parried easily and pressed his own attack, a savage overhand chop, relying on brute force to overwhelm his opponent. Jakt briefly felt his hot breath on his face, looked up to see wild eyes scarcely a foot from his own. Instead of fighting the man's lunge, he met the man's blade with his own, quicker than a whip, and tapped it slightly to the side, then deftly spun out of the man's way, his foot lunging out in the process to catch the gaoler's own. Overbalanced, the man crashed forwards, buying Jakt precious time.

He turned just in time to block the horizontal sweeping strike of one of the soldiers. In the corner of his eye he saw Ralof tackle the other to the ground, but he forced himself to concentrate on the man in front of him. He unleashed a flurry of quick strikes that left his opponent hard-pressed to counter them all. The last parry left the man awkwardly outstretched, his sword arm extended and bent too far to his left; Jakt deftly slid his own blade down past the hilt of his opponent's outstretched sword, shearing off his thumb and biting deep into his arm in the spot just before his leather gauntlet met his wrist. The man cried out and dropped his sword, and Jakt sent him reeling backwards with a shove.

Before he could follow up, the gaoler was upon him again, evidently recovered. He came in with a brutal smashing blow that sent a jolt through Jakt's arms as he just barely got his own sword up in time. The squat man pressed his attack, each swing stronger – and clumsier – than the last, keeping Jakt on the defensive. Jakt bided his time, parrying his blows, waiting for the man to make his mistake, and he soon did. His final swing, a great arcing overhead strike, took too long, and by the time he brought it down Jakt was no longer there. He'd spun aside, completed the turn to build his momentum, and by the time the gaoler's wicked sword reached the point where Jakt had previously stood, his own weapon was biting deep into the man's side.

The man cried out, turning awkwardly and desperately tried to counterattack, but Jakt swatted the halfhearted blow away and plunged his own blade deep into the man's chest, shearing through his leather armor with ease. With a gurgle the gaoler dropped his own weapon and clawed at the sword frantically, pathetically. Jakt did not linger, planting his foot on the man's stomach and yanking his blade free, sending the gaoler tumbling back in the process. He did not get up, and Jakt did not look at him. There was a lump stuck in is throat, and his eyes felt very dry, but he ignored it and turned away. He was just in time to see Ralof, standing, knock aside one last feeble slash and bury his axe deep in the neck of the soldier he'd been fighting.

Jakt was about to sheath his own blade when he remembered the third. The soldier sat against the wall, clutching his bleeding hand, tears of pain in his eyes. Ralof strode towards him, his axe dripping, his face frozen in cold rage. The soldier whimpered, "mercy," and Jakt opened his mouth to tell Ralof to wait, spare him, but before he could say anything his axe buried itself deep between the soldier's eyes. Ralof wrenched it out, let the man fall sideways.

He turned to Jakt and smiled, laugh lines returning to his face all of a sudden. "You're pretty handy, boy," he said. "Who taught you how to fight like that?"

Jakt just shook his head. He forced himself to smile back and replied, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Ralof shrugged and turned away. "Alright then. Lets keep moving."

Jakt lingered for a moment, finding himself in front of the third soldier, his head nearly split in two. He was young, no older than Jakt, and he would stay that way. And though it was matted with blood and brain matter, his fair hair betrayed his heritage, as did his sky-blue eyes, frozen open in death.

_By the Eight,_ thought Jakt. _What have I gotten myself into?_


	2. The Bleak Depths

The Draugr were big, they were strong, but they were definitely not quick. Finding himself face to face with one of the reanimated corpses, Jakt nimbly dodged a powerful yet clumsy swipe that took forever to fall. With a rapid strike of his own he slashed clean through the blue-eyed monster's outstretched arm, sending its ancient, heavy longsword crashing against the stone floor of the barrow. The draugr recoiled, its taut, rotting features twisted in what might have been pain, or perhaps surprise, as is attempted to process the loss of a limb. Jakt did not let it stew over its predicament too long: quick as lightning, he whipped his sword across, severing its head from its shoulders. It lurched to the ground to join three of its newly slain fellows, restrained once again by death's grip.

When Jakt had first entered Bleak Falls Barrow, the draugr had terrified him. The entrance chamber had contained four slain bodies – never a good sign – clad in a motley assortment of furs and leather and armed with simple iron weapons: bandits, by the look of them. Jakt had barely gone a few steps deeper into the barrow when he had encountered his first draugr, the hulking creature stepping down from a pedestal where it had previously stood, motionless, to attack. Thinking himself alone in the musty cavern, the fright it had caused him would haunt him for a fortnight, and his heart nearly gave out when another clambered from a coffin-sized hole in the wall to join its undead companion.

Jakt soon discovered, however, that while the draugr were dangerous in groups, they were too slow and cumbersome to pose much of a threat in ones or twos. Simply put, their brittle, stiff arms and legs did not allow them to swing their weapons fast enough to cause him damage, except when caught unawares. With this knowledge in mind, he had thought to use the ruin's narrow corridors to his advantage, using them to channel the awakened draugr like water through a funnel. This allowed him to avoid their lumbering slashes with relative ease. He also quickly learned of their adversity to light and heat: a salvaged torch from a fallen bandit proved to be more than just a light in darkness, as whenever he swung it the draugr could not help to cover their sunken, glowing blue eyes long enough for Jakt to strike. Their dry sandpaper skin lit up easily, and the blood in their veins had long since dried, making them easy to put to flame. Gradually his fear faded, replaced by pure adrenaline.

It did not completely disappear, however, only shrunk into a pulsating dread that lurked in the back of his mind. Pressing deeper into the barrow only fed his uneasiness, for not only did the draugr stalk the dank halls, but the cavernous ruin had its own defense mechanisms. The shopkeeper in Riverwood had warned him about the treacherous nature of the old Nordic tombs that littered Skyrim, so Jakt went slowly and carefully. If he was lucky, the lumbering, unaware draugr sprung the traps themselves; more than once he came across a struggling zombie, impaled by retractable metal spears or sliced down by ceiling-mounted axe blades that swung like pendulums. Occasionally he came across Draugr that had already been felled, all in the same curious way - with a single arrow buried in an eye. Each time this happened he frowned, wondering if there was someone else in there with him. But necessity dictated that he banish those concerns from his mind and focus on the problem at hand - namely, surviving the ruin's innate dangers.

It became readily apparent that the barrow was actually a sprawling crypt, inhabited by the undead remnants of some long-forgotten cult. The stench of death and decay hung heavy in the stale air, and Jakt could hear the distinctive thuds of draugr footsteps echoing throughout the twisted halls. Ancient, rusting weaponry littered the floors and walls; altars made of rotting wood and chipped stone held tiny offerings to carved busts that looked eerily like the heads of dragons. The draugr looked disturbingly familiar: their blue eyes and stringy fair hair betrayed their heritage. For all Jakt knew, he was desecrating the resting place of his ancestors.

After a tense, slow-moving hour or so of crawling deeper into the crypt, Jakt came across a tough, sticky, web-like substance that began to obscure the walls, ceiling and floor. The torch came in handy here, especially when the webbing began to block the way forward. A wet, mealy stench filled his nostrils. More than once he came across huge cocoons that looked big enough to house a man of Jakt's stature. The quiet sense of dread in the back of his mind throbbed and grew.

All of a sudden he found himself in an enlarged cavern. The walls themselves were not the carved stone of the crypt, but rather were hewn directly into the bedrock, clearly not by the hands of man or mer. Webbing coated the walls and parts of the floor. Large, man-sized clumps of brittle white matter that Jakt fervently hoped were _not _egg sacs decorated the edges of the room. On the other side of the cavern he could see a huge web, stretched tautly over what looked to be the exit. He squinted; in the dark, he thought he could barely make out something wriggling furiously…

He stepped forward to get a closer look, stepping onto a strand of web as he did so. There was a tiny _twang, _followed by a large creak that came from the ceiling. Jakt stopped, feeling a nervous drop of sweat beading down his face despite the chill air of the crypt. He stared straight ahead, at the struggling webbed object, not daring himself to look up. Maybe he was imagining things, but the trapped being, who definitely looked human, was shaking its head. He took a deep breath and slowly raised his gaze…

Just as the largest spider he'd ever seen unhooked itself from the webbed ceiling of the cave and thudded to the ground like a ton of bricks. The ground shook under the weight of its impact. It hissed and clicked a bizarre war cry that sounded like the rattle of bones.

The creature clawed its way forward, leading with its barbed front legs. Jakt, caught in a stupor, tripped backwards to avoid its first desperate swipe, an awkward pawing motion with its foremost leg that cut the air vertically. Unfortunately, Jakt's sweaty, shaking hands failed him, and he felt his sword slip from his grasp in the commotion. Barely able to see the pulsating mass of spider bearing down on him, he frantically held up his torch - which he'd managed to keep hold of - and waved it in front of his face with a desperate shout.

The spider, unaccustomed to light and heat just like the draugr, recoiled in confusion. Jakt forced himself upright, holding the torch high. Heart pounding in his ears, he forced himself to calm down and assess the situation. The spider was momentarily cowed by the torch, but it could not burn forever. Jakt started forward, his eyes on his foe while his feet frantically searching the ground for the muffled clank of metal on boot. He dared not take his eyes off his deadly adversary.

He managed to get a good look at the spider at the process. It was massive, longer and wider than two men, with fiendishly serrated chitin legs. What seemed like a thousand tiny, dark eyes stared at him from a massive hairy head, below which sprouted two bulbous pincers that dripped a foul greenish liquid. Interestingly enough, the spider seemed to be favoring its left side; he thought he could make out the hilt of a sword protruding from a particularly dark and matted area in the middle of its furred thorax. But then the spider lunged forward and Jakt refocused his priorities.

He dodged backwards nimbly, then stabbed the torch forward in a daring lunge. The spider recoiled a bit, but he could tell it was getting braver. Jakt was running out of time.

Then he felt it - the sword at his feet. The spider seemed to sense what was happening, and came forward with a new vigor, waving its front legs awkwardly. The beast was imposing, to be sure, but it was clearly not accustomed to fighting its prey face to face. In a swift movement Jakt flipped the sword up with his foot, grabbed it in his left hand, and spun to the right, avoiding the beast's frantic rush. With a mighty grunt he swung the blade down at an outstretched leg, severing it cleanly at the joint.

The spider recoiled in agony, emitting a high-pitched screech accompanied by several confused clacks of its pincers. It shrunk backwards away from him, favoring its stunted leg. Bounding forward, Jakt prepared to finish it off, youthful courage flowing through veins so recently clogged with fear.

He lunged forward, aiming for the spider's many-eyed face, but he had underestimated his foe. To his surprise, the spider caught the flat faces of the wide imperial blade in between its pincers. It wrenched the weapon away from his grasp and then threw itself forward, forcing Jakt onto his back in the process. The torch went too, skittering away in the clambor.

Jakt scrabbled backwards, frantically reaching for the small dagger he kept at his belt. As the spider's massive bulk bore down on him, he wrenched it free from its sheath and prepared to strike. He would only get one shot..

Just before the spider stabbed its pincers into his chest, Jakt plunged the dagger right into its face. The small blade found an eye socket and stuck there. Once again Jakt found himself on his ass, watching his adversary recoil in pain and fright, flailing frantically at its face with its remaining front leg. He wasted no time, springing to his feet and dashing to the creature's left side. His eyes had not failed him: sure enough, the gilded hilt of a slender sword protruded from the spider's flank. He grasped the hilt and whipped it out, causing the spider to screech in further pain. It turned desperately to face him, trying to protect its wound, and lashed out with its one good front arm. Jakt sidestepped the feeble blow easily and swept its back two right legs out from under it with a powerful, low horizontal chop.

The arachnid collapsed to its side, remaining legs waving frantically to compensate for its newly-created stumps. Jakt calmly walked around to its head, avoiding its thrashing arms with ease. He took the slender sword and plunged it once, twice, three times into the spider's head, then stepped back to watch as its writhing weakened into a final fetal curl.

After retrieving his torch, which had almost gone out, Jakt groped for his own sword. He inspected the blade to find a new pair of notches in the steel, but decided to keep it anyway. Sheathing it, he stalked toward the tall web that blocked the passage further into the crypt.

Now that he had time to focus, Jakt decided that the figure caught in the web was definitely human or elven. He could barely make out a slender build and dark, nondescript garb, as the figure was halfway wrapped in web. Judging by the haphazard wrapping job, the unfortunate soul had most likely barely beaten Jakt to the spider's den before the beast had jumped him. He began to writhe and squirm again as Jakt drew near.

_What do I do now? _Jakt wondered as he stood below him. _Is he a bandit, after the same treasure I am? _

_To Oblivion with it_, he decided, stepping forward. Nobody deserved to die like this. Laying down the torch, he took the slender sword in both hands. With a few strong chops, the figure flopped free, struggling to salvage his clothing from the sticky webbing. Jakt saw that his initial observations were correct: it was a man, shorter than he, with fair skin and curly black hair that fell just past his ears. He righted himself and Jakt got a good look at his face: swarthy and handsome, with a sharp jaw blunted by the hint of a beard. Two youthful brown eyes stared back at him: they seemed to radiate mirth. He was an imperial, no doubt, but he wasn't wearing the colors of the Legion. Rather, he was dressed in dark leather, his belt and bandoleer decorated with pockets that looked full of odds and ends. As he stood and walked forward he made an impossibly small amount of noise. His wiry build, bow and quiver at his back, and the slender sheath at his hip completed the roving vagabond look.

He offered his hand to Jakt, along with a warm smile. Jakt shook uneasily, unsure of what to say. _You're welcome?_

_"_I have to thank you, mate," said the imperial. "If you hadn't come along, I'd be spiderbait for sure." He had a reedy voice that Jakt found immediately untrustworthy. "Now, I believe you have something of mine…"

He gestured to the slender gilded sword that Jakt clutched at his side. Jakt looked down in confusion for a second, understood, then flipped the sword up and caught it by the flat side of its blade. He offered the hilt to the imperial, with an "Of course."

There was a pause as the man took it and placed it gracefully in its sheathe with a completely unnecessary flourish.

"Elven made, I'll have you know. Nabbed it off a Thalmor guard snoozing at his post in Solitude," the man laughed, "He probably caught Oblivion for that, the poor sod."

Jakt twisted his face slightly, unsure of what to think. Clearly, the man was some sort of thief, although probably not a very good one - he'd just admitted it out loud, after all!

The man caught wind of Jakt's skeptical look and laughed. "Now lad, normally I wouldn't steal from the goodly folk in the light of day, but when it comes to the Thalmor, all bets are off!" He punched Jakt's arm lightly, in what the man most likely suspected was a chummy manner.

Jakt just shook his head. "Who are you?"

The man took a step back and bowed. "I am Quintus Drake, formerly of Riften, and even more formerly of Cyrodil. You may also refer to me by my title, the Dawn Raven of Bravil, a name you surely would be familiar with if you had ever traveled south of this bright and cheerful land we find ourselves in."

Drake obviously mistook Jakt's stunned silence as an invitation to keep speaking.

"Now then," he began, "Clearly I underestimated the dangers of this bloody cave. Draugr and bandits are pure sport, but spiders are a different beast entirely, eh?" he paused, then chuckled to himself. "Literally, they are! In any case, you seem stout, for the mercenary type anyways, so what say we tackle this crypt together, good mister…" he paused. "what did you say your name was?"

Jakt cleared his throat and shook his head, still a little bewildered. "I didn't, but it's Jakt."

This seemed to stun Drake. He cocked an eyebrow. "Just… Jakt?"

Jakt nodded.

After a second of pondering Drake began to tut. Jakt raised his eyebrows in annoyance, but the Imperial obviously did not notice. "Perhaps we add a title," he began, mostly to himself, "I understand the nords are fond of listing their deeds after their names… Jakt Spiderbane, perhaps? Or something more likely to inspire fear - Jakt the Bloody? Jakt Deathbringer? Jakt the Odorous? Jakt the -"

"Just Jakt for now," the Nord cut him off before he could list more ridiculous suggestions. He smiled and grinned despite himself, however, and replied, "Perhaps we'll find some deed to grace my title at the bottom of this crypt."

Drake blinked in surprise, then laughed. "That's the spirit, lad!"

Jakt could not help but smile. Drake's demeanor, although grating, was also infectious. As it turned out, he was not all bluster - the young Imperial was a crack shot, proving to be, as Jakt suspected, the one responsible for the arrow-felled draugr throughout the Barrow. The lumbering zombies were no match for his swift bow. The weaker draugr he felled with no more than a single shot, always through an eye; the more resilient ones he slowed with arrows while Jakt finished them off at close range with brute force. The duo's combination of deadly aim and savage swordsmanship was simple but effective.

Roughly a dozen felled draugr later, the twisting corridors of the barrow converged upon a low arched hallway. After pausing to retrieve some of Drake's arrows, the two entered.

Jakt had a pretty good feeling that the hallway led to something either very valuable or very dangerous. Stone carvings faded with age and obscured by lichen decorated either side of the hall. He could vaguely made out the serpentine forms of dragons on either side as he and Drake stalked along the hallway. At the end of the arched corridor was a massive stone door, decorated with three concentric half-circles. Each circle had a small carving that aligned with the center of the doorway. The line they created descended towards a larger circle towards the bottom of the doorway that had a strange, three-pronged lock. The indentations on the lock resembled the four clawmarks of a reptilian hand.

Comprehension slowly dawned on Jakt just as Drake stepped forward to inspect the door.

"Ah," he began, "A Nordic puzzle door. I've heard about these - impossible to solve without the key. Luckily for us - I've got it."

Smiling a cocksure grin, he drew out a golden claw from one of his many pockets. Before he could use it, however, Jakt stepped forward and placed his large hand around Drake's wrist. The other went to his sword, resting firmly on the pommel.

"Quintus, wait," Jakt commanded.

"It's Drake, if you please," replied the Imperial coldly, regarding him for the first time with similar mistrust.

"Drake, then," Jakt continued, his voice quiet. "A merchant in Riverwood hired me to retrieve a golden claw that he claimed bandits had stolen." He paused for emphasis, tightening his grip ever so slightly. "Now, I suggest that you hand it over, nice and slow, and nothing bad need come of this."

There was a silent and very tense moment as the two men regarded each other. Jakt was fairly certain that Drake's proficiency with a bow outclassed his skill with his blade, if his preference for the ranged weapon was any indication. He stared confidently down into the other man's eyes, which to his credit betrayed no trepidation.

Drake was the first to break the silence, with a laugh that seemed a little bit forced. "Looks like our goals intwine, then," he began almost conversationally. "You see, my employer hired me to fetch something at the bottom of this Barrow. I have no interest in the claw itself - it is merely a means to an end. But I will cut you a deal."

He paused, walked a step or two, and placed his hand on his chin, pretending to think. "You're not too shoddy at killing draugr and whatnot, and I could probably use some muscle. You stick around long enough to see me through this crypt, and I'll not only throw in the claw, but I'll cut you a slice of a much bigger sweetroll, so to speak."

Jakt's surprise was so visible it caused Drake to chuckle. He did not trust the man, of course, but as long as he could keep him within the reach of a sword, the matter of trust was not really necessary, a point that Drake seemed to grasp.

Sensing his hesitation, the Imperial sealed the deal with a sly remark:

"Besides, I bet you're just as curious as I am about what's behind that door."

Drake was right: with the claw in their clutches, the puzzle door proved simple to solve. It gave way to a gargantuan cavern, even larger than the spider's nest, and surprisingly well lit. At one end there was a massive rock wall, two or three times taller than a man, slightly curved and covered in some sort of arcane script. In front of the wall was a single iron sarcophagus so dark that it seemed to suck the light out of the room all around it. An arched bridge stretched from the entryway to the plateau that housed the rock wall. Below the bridge was a small, dark lake that was impossibly still.

Jakt and Drake inched their way into the room with caution, their weapons drawn and their pulses pounding. The dread that had receded into the back of Jakt's mind returned in full force. When they made it to the plateau, the two waited expectantly in front of the sarcophagus, as if they were daring it to open up and swallow them into blackness.

When nothing happened, the two looked at each other quizzically. Drake shrugged and started forward, searching the area around the sarcophagus. It was then that Jakt started hearing the voices.

They were soft at first, barely audible, a slow, whispered chant. He swiveled like a top trying to find the source. Drake noticed and shot him a confused look.

"What in Oblivion are you doing?"

"Do you hear that?" Jakt replied. He stepped towards the sarcophagus, and the voices got a little louder. He took another step forward, and it happened again.

"No," Drake replied with a frown, "Don't hear a peep." The smaller man dashed forward and slapped his hands down on the box, searching desperately for a hinge or lid. Jakt hesitated, trying to discern the spoken words of the otherworldly chant. Failing to do so, he took another step forward.

By the time he reached the sarcophagus, the chanting had sped up and become louder. He ignored Drake, who had identified the lid and was trying unsuccessfully to pry it open. He could barely hear the Imperial's curses over the rising crescendo of voices. The sarcophagus itself was not the source of the noise: no, it seemed to emanate from the curious curved wall. Jakt stepped closer and the chanting raised to a shout; another step, and it became a storm of voices, frantic and deafening. All of the sudden a few of the characters, one of the words written in the indecipherable carved script, began to make sense. It read, '_fus.'_ Jakt felt the word sear itself into his brain, and something in his chest burned like the coals of a freshly bellowed forge.

"_Fus," _he whispered, and the word seemed to tear itself out of his mouth with a low, quiet rumble. All of a sudden the clambering and chanting stopped, and on some basic, primeval level Jakt understood. _Fus. _Force.

He turned to look at Drake, who had stopped trying to pry open the lid of the sarcophagus and had retreated a couple of steps to glower at it. Jakt walked back around it and stood beside him, unsure of how he might explain his surreal experience with the wall.

"Damn it," muttered Drake, "There has to be some way to get it open."

"Hey, uh, listen," Jakt began, his mind still reeling from the encounter. Drake turned to regard him quizzically. "What?"

But Jakt was saved from the trouble of having to explain his strange vision, because at that moment, as if right on cue, the lid of the sarcophagus blasted open with a momentous _clang. _There was a rattling sigh, and a gaunt, skeletal hand reached over the rim of the box. Metal scraped upon metal as the rest of the sarcophagus's inhabitant creaked up from its resting place. Jakt and Drake could only watch in terror as the draugr clambered to its feet and stepped out of its metal coffin.

It towered over the two would-be grave robbers, taller than any of its large-boned undead brethren by a head or more. It was dressed head to foot in blackened iron armor that clanked and creaked as it stood. On its head it wore a helmet with wicked horns so long and serrated that it would have put Mehrunes Dagon himself to shame. It turned towards the paralyzed pair, revealing two brilliant blue eyes that beamed from the darkened recesses of its helmet, staring deep into Jakt's own. Reaching behind its shoulder, it produced a greatsword longer than a man. As dark as the great draugr's armor, the blade nevertheless seemed to shimmer with pale, blue frost. The room seemed to blacken at that moment, and as the black draugr opened its mouth to suck in a breath, what little warmth that remained in the heavy, still air disappeared with a rattle.

Jakt had just enough time to draw his sword before the draugr opened its mouth and screamed a pained, devilish phrase and blew him off the plateau. It was the very same shout he'd heard the black dragon speak at Helgen, and as the unyielding wall of pure force lifted him off his feet and propelled him out over the lake below, Jakt couldn't help but find one of those words familiar. _Fus. _

He hit the water hard. His back smacked painfully against the hard surface of the lake, expunging the breath from his body as the water gave way to inky, cold depths. He struggled frantically to right himself, feeling his sword leave his grasp for a second time that day and plummet downwards, his sodden armor threatening to do the same with him. Luckily, Jakt was a strong swimmer, and the Stormcloak armor amounted to little more than thick fur and light chainmail. With a powerful kick he lunged upwards, breaking the surface with a gasp, only to hear another otherworldly wail from the platform above. Spying a small staircase cut into the side of the cliff wall that stretched from the lake to the platform high above, he doggedly pushed himself through the dank, syrupy water. Reaching the shore, he bounded up the staircase two steps at a time, his weaponless fists balled in rage, his sodden clothing barely weighing him down.

Somehow, Drake had managed to avoid the Draugr's shouts. While Jakt had been splashing around in the lake, the draugr had evidently closed the gap between them to engage the Imperial at close range. His elven sword drawn but practically useless, Drake was frantically trying to avoid the long, wicked blade of his undead enemy as it carved deadly swathes into the air. It had backed Drake practically to the edge of the platform, proving far quicker than its weaker brothers that they had left littering the floors of the barrow.

While Drake ducked and dodged away from the sure guarantee of dismemberment, Jakt found himself momentarily safe from the draugr, its heavily armored back facing him. The imperial was almost out of room to maneuver, though, and the long frigid blade would soon find its mark. As he glanced down at his painfully empty hands, doubt pawed at Jakt with sluggish fingers. Then, in a surge of adrenaline and insanity, mouthing a silent prayer to Talos, he sprung into action.

Jakt raced forward and threw himself onto the draugr's broad back, wrapping his arms around the beast's armored shoulders. It hardly even faltered under his full weight, but stopped its attack to assess this new threat. Blinking away his momentary confusion, Drake leapt forward and reengaged the draugr, forcing it to keep its focus on him. Batting away Drake's feeble strike with ease, it swung its sword at the nimble imperial, who threw himself to the side in a desperate bid to avoid the blade. The ploy bought Jakt precious seconds, and he pawed his way up the draugr's back, wrapping his powerful legs around its midsection.

Taking its head in a double armlock, Jakt twisted it to the left in order to build torque, and, with all the force of his soaked yet corded muscles, jerked it to the right. The draugr's brittle, leathery skin and rotting bones were no match for the young nord's strength, and with a sickening crunch, its neck gave way. The unexpected break sent Jakt sprawling, his own momentum propelling him off of the beast's back and sending him sprawling onto his own. With surprising grace he rolled backwards and came up on his feet. He came up face to face with his opponent, as the draugr's head had almost completely turned around in its socket. He swore he saw it blink in what could only be confusion.

He was fighting the urge to laugh when the draugr screamed at him and began frantically flailing its limbs. He could hear Drake oblige his own mirth, however, the imperial's laughter ringing uproariously from somewhere behind the hulking, confused monster. The creature's haphazard movements were completely uncoordinated, comically so, by virtue of its reversed head. It lumbered awkwardly towards him, its head facing Jakt but his front facing Drake. The young nord easily dodged a clumsy backhanded swing, biding his time. Sure enough, the stupid beast swung again, overextending its backwards arm in the process and burying its sword in the cobbled ground. Jakt kept forward and grabbed the sword hand of his disoriented opponent, disarming it easily. From there on it was only a matter of decapitating the beast with its own weapon. The two-handed blade hummed through the air to finish the job that Jakt had already started with his bare hands.

As the headless draugr toppled, Drake walked over, shaking his head and laughing.

"I guess not all draugr are bad," he said, sending the severed head rolling towards the water with a gentle kick. "Looks like all this one needed was a little change in perspective, eh?"

He burst out laughing again, and this time Jakt joined in with him, albeit reluctantly. Drake bounded to his side and punched him again in the arm.

"You had me worried there for a moment, lad," he began, with a wink, "Worried that I might have to tackle the beast myself and walk away with all the reward, anyways!" He paused, putting his hand to his chin in mock contemplation again. "I never do know what to do with that much money - I'd probably end up wasting most of it on women and drink and clothing, anyways!" He laughed at his own words. Jakt stared at him, the smile dying on his lips, reminded of just who he had allied himself with.

"What? I suppose you want a sincere thank you, or something?"

"Drake. The reason we came here. Remember?"

"Ah yes," Drake answered, sheathing his sword with the same stupid flourish as before and walking towards the empty sarcophagus. Jakt joined him, and they both gazed down at its contents. A moment passed, and then Drake turned to Jakt with eyebrows raised so high they seemed to hover over his head.

"That phony magician hired me to retrieve this?" he asked incredulously, pointing down at the object in the base of the vessel. "A _rock?!"_

Jakt bent down to inspect it. It was a stone tablet, larger than a book, with tiny illegible script carved into both sides. He shook his head in confusion and straightened up, gesturing wordlessly to the imperial to retrieve it.

With an exasperated huff, Drake reached into the sarcophagus. He swore and swayed as he struggled to lift the tablet.

"Nocturnal's sodden shorts! I can barely even pick it up!"


	3. The Dragon at the Tower

"You know, to your credit," Jakt the Nothing began cheerfully, "I'm surprised you didn't run off with the tablet, and the claw for that matter. The Eight know, you had plenty of chances."

"I was planning on it," Drake replied irritably, "If it wasn't so bloody heavy, I'd have sold the damn thing and been halfway to Solitude by now."

Jakt shifted the heavy leather satchel containing their bounty to his other shoulder with a cheeky smile. Normally Drake would have replied in kind, but he was in a foul mood. He was still damp from the rain and his pockets were beginning to feel dangerously emptier than usual. The merchant in Riverwood had not paid nearly enough for the trouble of returning his golden claw. And the early morning sun was just beginning to shine directly into his eyes.

And worst of all, on the three day trek from Riverwood to Whiterun his traveling companion had begun to _warm_ to him. After ten years in his particular line of work, Drake had learned the importance of maintaining personal connections, but dependency, emotional or physical, was something to be avoided. In his opinion, Jakt had not shown the requisite talent to deserve this much of Drake's time: skill in combat and brute muscle were easily bought and traded for in Skyrim, the supply being higher than the demand. Normally he would have cut and run, but he needed the fool's help to carry the stone tablet. Now he was going to have to honor his stupid makeshift agreement and give him a cut of the reward. Although not a superstitious man, Drake believed in fate: after all, it had screwed him over on multiple occasions.

Still, he couldn't help but like the lad, despite himself. Jakt was wide-eyed and curious, despite his stoic demeanor, and as his guard began to drop a sense of wonder and humor began to emerge in its place. His sword arm was certainly capable, his battle experience surprising for a youth his age. What was more, by volunteering to carry the tablet for Drake and therefore denying him the opportunity to cut him out of the deal, he had proved that he might have a knack for Drake's particular business. _Perhaps,_ he thought to himself, _I might have need of an enforcer, when this deal is done._

There was one subject, however, that caused Jakt to clam up: his past. Drake found this annoying and cliche. His own past was rife with misdeeds and burnt bridges, though, so he chose to respect the young nord's silence on the matter. He managed to piece together that it was his first visit to Skyrim, and that he had forsaken little by fleeing Cyrodil. Only the Gods knew what he had hoped to find here: certainly not a land in turmoil, split down the middle by some pointless civil war. Drake frowned, looking over at his young charge, who still wore the blue of the Stormcloaks. _If only he would wear something a little less conspicuous…_

"I thought I told you to change your armor," he murmured to his nord companion as they waited on the great stone steps that led to the palace of Whiterun. "They don't especially _like_ Stormcloaks here, and your little uniform is bluer than a mountain flower."

Jakt raised his head to glower at him, his earlier mirth forgotten. "If Whiterun really is the heart of Skyrim like you claim," he began in a low voice, his chin jutting out like a battering ram, "Then it ought to appreciate the true struggle of its sons and daughters."

Drake did all he could to avoid rolling his eyes. "Fine. Keep it on. Put on your cloak though, I don't want some meddlesome steward docking our pay because of your politics."

Jakt narrowed his eyes, but after a moment he reached into his bag, withdrew his traveling cloak and threw it over himself. To Drake's relief, it hid the bulk of his telltale uniform. _Perhaps this one is less stubborn and foolish than he looks. _Then, finally, the door opened.

"Farengar Secret-Fire will see you now," grunted a brutish guard who did not even have the decency to make eye contact. Drake suppressed a sigh as he rose and followed the man, resisting the urge to grumble about this shoddy treatment. After all, the stupid wizard had stressed _utmost haste _\- a double standard if there ever was one! Drake could admit easily that he was a convicted thief, but no one had ever accused him of wasting anyone's time.

Drake did not like dealing with guardsmen or housecarls or stewards or especially Jarls. They were boorish and repressive, and bad for business. He had found that the Nordic concepts of honor above all and duty to your brother were not only financially unsound, they were often accompanied by a helping of hypocrisy. Whiterun, being the cultural center of Skyrim, was especially drenched in the Nord ways of life and business. So the unfortunate reality of having to report to the court wizard of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater in the palace of Dragonsreach, surrounded by his guards and lackeys, was quite unsettling to Drake, not to mention ironic.

He could feel Jakt stiffen at his side as they entered the great hall of Dragonsreach. Drake had to admit - it was impressive. Huge, arching columns of wood and stone wove up and around the colossal room, from which smaller doorways branched. A great flaming hearth stretched the length of the hall, around which sat a U-shaped table. At the end of the main hall stood the Jarl's throne, a surprisingly spartan affair, made of simple wood and fitted with iron and furs. Jarl Balgruuf himself was nowhere to be seen. Drake could make out twin staircases on either side of the throne that ascended into the main tower of the ornate fortress.

"First time in a castle?" he whispered to the stunned Nord at his side as they plodded after their surly escort.

"I grew up in the shadow of the White-Gold Tower," Jakt replied, his voice slightly stunted, "But I hardly placed a foot near it."

"So, yes, this is your first time," Drake finished off for him, giving the young nord a withering sideways glance.

"What about you?" Jakt replied after a moment, right after the two extricated themselves from the path of two overworked servants burdened with towering trays of cheese and meat.

"I have been known to frequent them on occasion," Drake replied, neatly sidestepping a haughty nord shieldmaiden dressed in patchwork steel armor as she clanged towards the great double doors. "Although I daresay most of my visits seem to pass by within the dungeons of said castles." He winked at Jakt, who failed to repress a smile.

The guard marched them into the court wizard's study and abruptly vanished. It was a small room, an offshoot of the great hall located near the throne, stuffed to the brim with books, alchemy ingredients, and magical knick-knacks. Drake scanned the room as they waited, looking for anything that looked remotely valuable. In a corner, his back to them, stood the Court Wizard, paying them little heed.

In Drake's experience, there were two kinds of magic-users: those who wielded their powers to dazzle the uninitiated, and those who actually put them to concrete and responsible uses. Farengar Secret-Fire, as he called himself, was of the former. He was hunched over a ruined table, a hooded figure whispering fiercely, mortar and pestle buried in his hands. Finally, as if sensing their presence for the first time, he spun around, his hood failing to disguise the wild look on his face. With a dramatic wave of his hand and a silent command he ignited the contents of the mortar, then brought the pestle down hard into the stone receptacle. A great gout of green flame jumped from the mortar and into the air and burned for some ten seconds before receding into a tiny crackling fire.

Jakt recoiled slightly, the reaction that Farengar seemed to be looking for. For the nth time that day, Drake stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Magic users were either very boring, or very dangerous. He wasn't sure which kind was worse. But all of them were pretentious, self-absorbed, power-seeking fanatics, each in their own way.

As Farengar placed his glorified candle on his desk and cleared his throat to speak, Drake became aware of another presence in the room. Swathed in the grey, gender-obfuscating robes of the typical mage, another hooded figure hugged the far wall of the study. The hooded person obviously preferred to retain an aura mystery, content to watch the exchange from afar. _Another high-and-mighty magic-user, no doubt._

"You have returned," Began Farengar in his nasally voice. He lowered his hood, revealing a ridiculous pair of sideburns. "With the Dragonstone, I trust?" He noticed then that Drake was not alone. "Oh. And, who is this?"

"A stranger, incidentally," Drake replied neutrally. "His name is Jakt, and he came here of his own accord. He's the one who actually _has_ the stone. And, for the record, Farengar, you might have mentioned the dangers that I faced at the bottom of that tomb."

"Yes, well, it doesn't really matter, does it?" replied the wizard impatiently, "You obviously survived, with the stone in tact, no less. Now, we had a deal. I would _especially_ like to examine it as soon-"

"Hold on there, chum," Drake cut him off, working his way towards Farengar in a slow, meandering circle. "First off, I'd like to know why you couldn't be bothered to tell me what the damn thing _was _in the first place. And for the record, I don't actually _have _the stone - he does." He pointed to Jakt with a smug smile.

Perhaps recognizing that he was about to be grifted, Farengar looked to Jakt with some trepidation, but the Nord's face was hard as stone.

"Now," Drake continued, as he silently traced his way around the study, "I don't aim to speak for this stranger here, but I understand that he might be willing to part with the stone if you pay him, say, _twice _the terms of our original deal."

Farengar looked flabbergasted for a moment, but then nodded, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a sizable coinpurse. Drake grinned, but inwardly he was taken by surprise. He hadn't expected the idiot to cave so readily. Maybe the stone was actually valuable…

"Wait," Jakt said, his harsh visage giving way to one of curiosity. "You called it a Dragonstone. Why wouldn't you tell us what it was in the first place?"

Farengar looked to him, raising an eyebrow. "For the sake of secrecy, obviously," he began in a huff. Drake moaned inwardly as the coinpurse disappeared again into the folds of his robe. "The contents of that tablet are ancient, not to mention nearly indecipherable, but they are of utmost immediate importance. It is best that no one knows of this transaction." He paused for effect. "Now, since you are mercenaries, I will explain it to you in terms that you actually understand. I will pay you _triple _our original price if you promise not to tell a soul about our agreement."

Drake's spirits soared as the purse once again reemerged. Perhaps having the big lug along would be profitable after all! He reached for the coin, intent on blowing the coop before Jakt had another chance to screw up their score. Upending the purse, he counted out the money: six hundred gold, all in ten-piece Septims. Finished, he turned to Jakt with his features twisted in delight, only to find the young nord rooted to the spot, his hard eyes boring into Farengar's. Jakt opened his mouth to speak.

"Does it have anything to do with the dragon attack on Helgen?"

Farengar opened his mouth and shut it mechanically, his eyes wide with surprise. Drake looked at his companion quizzically. _Dragon attack on Helgen? What in Oblivion is he talking about?_

Evidently, everyone but he knew what was going on, for there was a sharp intake of breath from the corner of the wizard's study. The hooded figure relieved itself from its leaning position and stalked forward. When it reached the trio, it reached up and removed its hood, revealing itself to be a young woman. By her looks and her height, she was of Breton blood. Drake found her quite pretty, with red hair that fell nearly to her shoulders, and a freckled, heart-shaped face. She had yellow eyes that gleamed with the self-assurance that accompanied the combination of youth and knowledge. For the first time that day he found himself standing at attention, quite captivated. She hardly spared Drake a glance.

"How did you learn of that?" she snapped, her eyes locked on to Jakt's. Jakt did not reply, his own face scrunching up as he narrowed his gaze. The tip of her head barely came to Jakt's collarbone, but she cut an imposing figure nonetheless. While the two stared, mutual antagonism flowing between them, Drake ran his eyes up and down her form, trying in vain to elucidate the shape of her body underneath her robes.

"Please, allow me to introduce my associate from the College of Winterhold," began Farengar, his feathers clearly quite ruffled, "Apprentice Acolyte Lysana Trystane."

Drake knew the College only by reputation, but he was relatively certain that some Winterhold spook poking her nose into this Dragonstone business would not turn out to be profitable in the long run. He let go of the admittedly far-fetched prospect of taking her to bed and instead began silently planning his exit strategy from this whole sordid affair. He turned to Jakt to hurry him along, but the nord had evidently decided to answer Trystane's query.

"I was there," he admitted, lowering his eyes for a second. There was, once again, a hushed silence, as she and Farengar both recoiled.

"So it's really true then," Farengar asked in hushed tones, turning towards the other mage. Drake allowed them to exchange a brief, dark look before breaking the ridiculous tension that had built up.

"All right then," he began, his tone caught somewhere between annoyance and humor, "What is this horse manure? _Dragons_? I've hardly read a dozen books, and even I know they've been gone for thousands of years!" He tried to lock eyes with of the three of them, to gauge their faces, but he was met with awkward, embarrassed looks from the each. He shook his head. "You mean to tell me that dragons have _returned? _Hah!" He forced himself to laugh, but their silence was deafening. His laughter dying in his throat, he found himself at a loss for words, something that rarely happened.

Finally, Farengar cleared his throat awkwardly, giving Drake a target to focus on.

"Listen, chap," he began, "You'll have to pay me way more than triple if you want me to choke down this hogwash-"

All of a sudden, there came a commotion from the great hall, interrupting his bluster. Shouts and cries, accompanied by the scrapes of wood upon stone and thumps of bound leather boots sounded from the other room. Trystane perked up instantly, slipping between he and Jakt as gracefully as water flowing between stones. Jakt and Farengar padded after her, leaving Drake alone for a second in his confusion. Finally, he too marched into the great hall, determined to give someone a piece of his mind. The scene that befell his eyes chilled him to the bone.

The entirety of Balgruuf the Greater's court, including the Jarl himself, was clustered around two figures. One was a dark elf, a severe-looking woman clad in toughened leather armor. The other was a badly burnt guardsman, his yellow Whiterun colors blackened with soot. The elf was supporting the guard, whose entire left side was scorched almost beyond recognition. His arm hung in a stump, grizzled and twisted, oozing pus-infected blood. The guard whispered something, his parched mouth barely able to form words. The Dunmer woman translated for him.

"He says, a dragon has laid waste to the Western Watchtower," her clear, strong voice rang out, transforming the whispers of worry and confusion from the crowd into a stunned silence. "The garrison there is all but destroyed! We must send reinforcements immediately!" She looked to the Jarl.

Clad in gold-lined fur, with a grouchy face that might have been carved from stone, Balgruuf towered over his inferiors, the very picture of nord resolve. This was certainly helped by his relative positioning: he'd remained at the top of the steps that led to the dining area while the others clustered around the wounded guard. Drake stifled a smile at the familiar trappings of self-important royalty.

"Irileth," the Jarl growled down at the dark elf, whose attempt to stand at attention nearly knocked down the wounded man she supported, "You will lead a team to drive away the beast. Bring it down if you can, but it must not reach the farmlands, let alone the city walls!"

"My Jarl!" cried Farengar, his face the epitome of delight and excitement, "Let me go as well! I must see it with my own eyes! Imagine what we might learn-"

"I will not throw my court wizard into a battle with a dragon!" Balgruuf interrupted him, his booming voice ricocheting off the walls, "You are too important. You will stay and work on the tablet." Drake felt a tiny bit of satisfaction as he saw Farengar's face wilt. Then he realized the implications of the Jarl's words: so he, too, knew of the Dragonstone..?

"I will go in his stead," Trystane's voice rang out clear and strong, interrupting his thought process. She took a step forward, placing her hands on her hips and thrusting her head high. "I have some skill in offensive magic, which I am sure will prove useful." The Jarl turned his icy gaze upon her, but she did not shrink before him.

All of a sudden he became aware that Jakt was no longer at his side, but had stepped forward. Drake felt his stomach sink, but it was too late to stop him.

"I too will go," said the young, foolish Nord. His voice was soft and steady. "I have faced a dragon before, at Helgen."

If the room had been marginally quiet before, now it was deadly silent. Balgruff and Jakt stared at each other for a long, hard second. The older nord looked down at Jakt with a mixture of disdain and appraisal, clearly sizing him up. Jakt's visage quickly became brash and fiery, the byproduct of undefeated youth. Neither of them spoke. Even Drake had to admit the silence was electrifying.

"Very well," growled the Jarl, "Let it be known that I, Balgruuf the Greater, did not force you to risk your lives for my city. Now go, drive the beast into the mountains, and rid us of its scourge!"

The crowd dispersed in a flurry of motion. The injured soldier somehow found his way into the arms of a priestess of Kynareth, who led him away. The dark elf, Irileth, was shouting commands to a rapidly assembling compliment of guardsmen. He spied Jakt, striding over to join them. Drake elbowed his way over to the Nord and stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"What in the name of Akatosh do you think you're doing?!" he whispered fiercely, forcing the nord to turn around and resisting the urge to claw out his eyes.

Jakt turned to him, a lopsided grin eking its way onto his face. He said, in a low, almost joking voice:

"Going to kill a dragon."

* * *

"Out of the question," raged the imperial as he pranced along besides him, his feet practically hovering due to his frantic consternation. The guards that marched along before them, including the imposing dark elf woman, paid the slight man no second thought.

"You're already marching with us," Jakt reminded him, speaking out of the corner of his mouth, "We're almost to the gate, for Talos's sake."

"Watch it," the red-haired sorceress cut in icily, as she walked at his left, "That's not a name you want to say too loudly around here."

He started to turn towards her to argue, but Drake grabbed his shoulder again. "I'm not throwing my life away! We just got _paid, _Jakt, now let's beat it! That's how it works! You're lucky I haven't even taken off already!"

"Someone has to do something, Gods damn it," Jakt said, trying to contain the strain of helplessness in his voice. Truthfully, he was terrified, and did not know what in Oblivion he was doing. But something deep inside him, some spark of ambition, of greatness and foolishness, seemed to be burning brighter than ever. For the first time in his admittedly young life he felt something stirring inside him, the grinding clockwork of destiny finally turning his way. It was electric and terrifying, and he could not stop himself.

"Haven't you heard the stories?" Drake began again, a plea lodged in his voice. He scrambled around to Trystane, who was nearly succeeding in outdistancing the both of them.

"Listen, Trystane-" he began, but she cut him off.

"It's Lysana," she barked. "Don't call me by that name."

Her sudden and severe reproach caused him to recoil momentarily, but he swooped back in again for another try.

"Lysana, then. What does the return of the dragons mean? For Skyrim, or for Tamriel, and so forth?"

She turned to regard him coldly, then reversed herself to stare at Jakt for a moment.

"It is bad."

"Bad? The Eight damn you woman, hecan _probably_ figure that out for himself!"

She ignored him, then spoke again, breaking eye contact. "It is said, in the ancient Nord legends, that the dragons' return heralds the end of all time."

"Of all time?" Jakt asked in confusion.

"She's talking about the _apocalypse, _you dolt!" Drake was positively livid, his eyes wide, his mouth nearly foaming. "Which is why we should be taking the money and heading as far away as we can!"

Jakt stopped and spun to face Drake. The other guards marched on ahead, but Lysana faltered and turned to wait. "Listen, Quintus," he began, taking the smaller man's shoulders in his hands and holding him at arm's length. Drake froze up when Jakt called him by first name, as he'd hoped. "We can't do this without you. I'll bet you're twice the shot than any of those lousy guards. Your bow will give you the range; all you have to do is squeeze off a few shots and _keep your head down_." Jakt smiled, hoping that it appeared the least bit genuine. "Besides, I'm betting you're as curious as I am to see a real live dragon."

Drake still looked skeptical, so Jakt played his trump card. "Imagine adding 'dragonslayer' to your title.. and the fame and fortune that would follow."

He released the man, clapped him on the shoulder, then rejoined Lysana and rushed to catch up with the rest of their merry band of dragon hunters. Suddenly he became aware of Drake, jogging alongside them. He was repeating one word, over and over.

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit."

It was noon by the time their motley band reached the Western Watchtower, and the scene that greeted them was one of devastation. The structure, an unbecoming, rough-hewn, circular tower, still stood, but great gaping chunks of stone were missing from its sides, and instead were strewn along the surrounding area. Large swathes of grassland had been charred by long, lateral sheets of fire. The mangled remains of wooden bulwarks added to the cacophony of destruction. A few corpses decorated the scene, their telltale yellow uniforms charred and blackened. There was no dragon in sight.

Jakt reached behind his back and drew his sword. He'd held onto the black draugr's greatsword, his own blade lost in the depths of Bleak Falls Barrow. He'd planned on selling it in Whiterun, for it was heavier than he liked, and carried the faint stench of dusty, dead flesh. But it was well balanced, and frigid to the touch, clearly powerfully enchanted with some sort of ice magic. And besides, the extra length would come in handy against a dragon - if he got the chance to actually use it. The others followed suit, drawing their own weapons, half of the guardsmen brandishing bows.

"Spread out into small groups," yelled Irileth, the dark elf, who Jakt surmised was some sort of battlefield commander. She certainly looked the part - hardened by experience, and unnecessarily harsh. "If you see it, take cover first, and then yell out its position."

A tense moment passed as Jakt, Lysana and Drake huddled close together. The party began to fan out into small groups, moving to surround the watchtower, their heads tilted skyward. Lysana was whispering something underneath her breath, with her hands clasped together. Drake's mouth was wired shut, his expression taught. He scanned the skies desperately, as his fingers favored his taut bowstring. The silence continued for a long moment, broken only by the faint rustle of grass swaying in the wind.

Just as Jakt entertained thoughts that the beast had fled the scene, that the danger to Whiterun had passed, a huge form detached itself from behind the watchtower and took to the air. There was a whooshing sound as it raced over their heads, fifty yards above them. Then a piercing roar split the air. Jakt twisted his head around to catch a glimpse.

It was a dragon, all right, mottled green this time, perhaps smaller than the one at Helgen, and with less spikes protruding from its lithe, reptilian body. It stretched its leathery wings and flapped them hard, beating furiously at the crisp air in order to gain altitude.

"_Dragon!_" screamed a guard, _"_North of us!"

"Gods help us, look at size of that thing!"

"How in Oblivion are we supposed to fight _that!?"_

"Stow it! You are soldiers, not children!" Irileth yelled, her voice harsh and fearless as she rallied her stupefied guards. "Shields up, men! Archers, notch your arrows but hold your fire! _Wait until it dives_!"

Jakt watched, his heard pounding, his mouth open and tongue dry, as the beast circled around to face men crowded together into small groups, crouching, readying their arrows and raising their shields. The dragon seemed to study them for a moment, flapping its wings lazily, its head angled sideways in a manner one might call curious. Then it made up its mind, flapped once, and dived.

The scene exploded into chaos. A group of guards abruptly lost their nerve and broke apart, running for whatever small cover they could find. A few loosed their arrows too soon, watched them fall short, and struggled to reload their bows in time. But it was too late, for the dragon was upon them.

With a gout of flame it roasted one of the fleeing men alive: he staggered, screaming, then fell to his stomach and burned. At the lowest point of its dive, it caught another man in its hind claws, lifting him up and then crunching him to death with a powerful contraction of its muscled legs. His broken body, reddened by deep lacerations, tumbled from its grasp as it flapped upwards again. Jakt felt a tiny misting of blood on his face as he turned away from the grisly scene. He said a silent prayer, thanking the divines that he, Drake and Lysana were out of range. Roaring triumphantly, the dragon climbed into the sky.

"It's coming around for another pass!" Irileth shouted, trying desperately to bring order to the panicking men. "Quickly! Shields up, form a wall! Archers at the ready!"

Some fifteen yards away, The remaining guards organized themselves into a small shield wall, the archers running to crouch behind them. Their formation looked awfully pitiful compared to the great beast they were supposed to be hunting. Jakt prepared to sprint towards them, but stopped when he felt Lysana's hand on his bare arm. He turned to find her eyes glowing light green, then watched her shudder and sigh as as a cool, calming sensation suddenly washed over him. She released him, and he looked down at his arm to see a shimmering green aura spread all over his body. It crackled and then began to slowly fade. He looked to Drake, who was similarly adorned, then looked back to the mage with a question on his lips.

"Stoneskin," she explained, with what could have been a shy smile. "It will absorb the brunt of the dragon's breath." He did not have the time to thank her, for at that minute, the dragon began to dive once again. He started towards the shield wall, but stopped immediately, knowing then that it was too late to help them.

This time, the archers loosed their arrows at exactly the right moment, and five tiny projectiles soared skyward to impact somewhere on the dragon's huge body. Three simply bounced off its hard scales, but two lodged themselves in its left wing. Jakt thought he heard it bark in surprise, but it stayed its course and met the shield wall head on. What followed was pure carnage.

Wood splintered and men screamed as the dragon plowed into them, forcing its way upwards and raking both of its huge back claws against the tiny phalanx. The formation abruptly collapsed: three of the guards were tossed upwards, mangled and bleeding, while the rest were thrown onto their backs. The dragon's long, lathe-like tail, wider than a man's thigh even at its very tip, whipped across, catching any man unfortunate enough to remain on his feet. With a triumphant roar it climbed skyward again, circling around the tower. When it did not immediately turn to prepare for a third dive, Jakt realized what it was doing. _Its toying with us. _

Jakt sprinted to the pile of human wreckage and helped those guards that could still stand up to their feet. His two companions followed. They were losing, and someone needed to pull them together. Irileth lay face down some five yards away, thrown clear by the dragon's tail, either unconscious or dead. He looked to Lysana, whose wide fearful eyes betrayed her dishonestly calm face, then to Drake, who had yet to loose a single arrow, his lips pressed so tight that they had turned white. This was it - it was either organize and fight back, or burn.

"Drake!" He shouted to the listless imperial, "Take every remaining archer and climb the tower. When it gets into range, aim for the wings." he reached over and pounded the imperial on his shoulder. "GO!"

Drake snapped out of his stupor in an instant, racing over to the two surviving archers, and the three of them bolted to the watchtower.

He turned to the mage. "How good are your lightning bolts?"

"Stronger than a thunderstorm," she replied, her voice quavering ever so slightly.

"Stay behind us," he instructed her, then turned to the remaining men. There were four of them, one with a battle axe, the rest of them armed with sword and shield. "The rest of you! Take cover next to the watchtower!" he yelled. He sprinted the twenty yards to the tower, throwing himself against the wall. The others followed suit. Just as they piled into the tower's protective shadow, the dragon appeared overhead, bearing down on them with a screech. Luckily, they were close enough to the structure so that the dragon had to veer off at the last second, its poorly-aimed angle of approach frustrating its attempt to dive. It sent a blast of flame flying over their heads, which impacted harmlessly against the hard stone of the tower, then began to climb upwards into the sky.

"Now, form up!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, "Protect the mage!"

Piling forward, the three shield bearers locked together. Jakt turned to Lysana, but saw that further instruction was hardly necessary.

"I think I know what you have in mind," she snapped, her hand already crackling with energy. He and the axe-bearer took their places at her sides, their bulk shielding her from view and harm.

By huddling them close enough to the tower, Jakt had ensured that the dragon could not dive on them. He knew, somehow, that the beast likely would not sacrifice its airborne advantage by landing and engaging them on solid ground. Which meant it would have to hover in one place in order to rain fire down on them - thereby presenting a large, relatively immobile target.

Sure enough, the dragon soon wheeled into view. It hovered some thirty yards above the ground, roughly the same height as the watchtower, as it zeroed in on its prey. Flapping its wings frantically to keep its huge bulk in the sky, it angled its head down at them and roared a furious challenge. The shriek echoed through the nearby mountains and sent cold shivers of fear scurrying down Jakt's spine. But he and the rest of his guardsmen stood their ground.

There was a _whoosh _as the dragon sucked in a hefty breath. At that moment, Jakt and the other four men broke ranks to reveal the sorceress, a sizzling blue bolt of lightning dancing its way all over her body. She raised her right hand, pointed with index and middle finger, and loosed the deadly bolt. It struck the dragon straight in the face. A half second later, there was a yell from the top of the tower, and a volley of arrows came sailing down to pierce its left wing.

The dragon aborted its breath in confusion, roaring as it staggered in mid air. Its wings beat disharmoniously as it sagged to the left, struggling to remain airborne itself. Its neck twisted in agony as the sorceress's deadly bolt worked its way down its spine and dissipated painfully across its abdomen.

Lysana stepped forward, shouted a few words, arms stretched forward with palms facing out. A fireball blossomed, larger than a man's head, then shot forward. Jakt watched as it projected through the air, impossibly slow, to impact with the dragon's injured wing, blowing a sizable hole in the thin, leathery skin. As if right on cue, a second volley of arrows followed the fireball.

The combined barrage proved too much for the dazed beast, and it veered left and down. The guards cheered around him as it smashed into the ground, screeching horribly, scratching an oblong crater into the earth.

"It's grounded!" Jakt shouted to his allies. "Don't let it take off again!"

He raised his sword high and sprinted towards the downed dragon, screaming at the top of his lungs. The guardsmen followed him, weapons ready to strike, their voices blending together into triumphant harmony.

Their battle cries turned to screams as the dragon righted itself, angled its head towards them, and breathed a deadly gout of flame right into their path. Fire licked at Jakt's vision as he struggled forward. The air around him grew deathly hot and crackled, but his own skin remained untouched: as she had predicted, Lysana's stoneflesh spell was absorbing the worst of the attack. The cool and calming sensation gradually abated as he felt the dragon fire burning through the enchantment, the second skin curling and flaking off in husks like paper-thin bark off a burning log. Then the barrage was over.

He chanced a look back to see his four compatriots: the luckier among them rolled and twisted, stamping out flames, while the unlucky ones clawed feebly at their burning skin or smoking lifelessly in a fetal heap. Lysana sat nearby, dazed but apparently unharmed. He turned back towards the dragon to see it eyeing him curiously, its head cocked to one side. It seemed surprised that he had survived the deadly flame. There was still a gap between them - perhaps ten feet. Jakt knew that his second skin was gone: nothing would spare him from another fiery assault.

As the dragon sucked in another breath, preparing to unleash one last deadly firestorm, Jakt played his last, most desperate card. Running full pelt at the dragon, he screamed, at the top of his lungs, a single word.

"FUS!"

There was a ear-splitting _crack_ as the word left his mouth and careened towards the dragon, building momentum: he could see shockwaves rippling through the air, cascading outwards. The wall of force hit the dragon squarely on its nose, forcing its snapping jaw sideways. It let out a grunt of confusion, giving Jakt the time to circumvent its head. By the time it had recoiled, he was on one side of its outstretched neck. He raised his sword high and brought it down with all his might.

The dragon screamed in pain, a deafening, pitiful wail, as his blade buried itself deep into its neck. Placing his boot on its scaly hide, he wrenched the sword free and, quick as a flash of light, swung it right down at the same spot. The blade sheered straight through neck-bone only to lodge itself in the meaty muscle tissue on the other side. The dragon began to convulse, wrenching the sword from Jakt's hands, showering him with droplets of blood. He leapt clear of its shaking body, a frantic tumble of wings and scales, then turned to watch as its last, desperate throes became weaker and weaker. It tried to open its mouth to scream, but instead produced only a gurgle, accompanied by a fountain of black blood. A final, wet gargle escaped its throat, and then the beast lay still.

Jakt breathed a heavy sigh of relief, and felt a rush of exhaustion. Fighting to stay upright, he turned to see his remaining comrades limping towards him. Two guards, sporting varying degrees of burns and carrying a severely battered but breathing Irileth, cheered hoarsely as they made their way. Drake and his two archers jogged up to survey the scene, their faces wide-eyed and full of disbelief. Drake himself seemed fit to burst. Lysana padded up beside him, her eyebrows raised, something awfully close to amazement playing about her face. Then, all of a sudden, one of the men let out a gasp and pointed beyond him, towards the corpse. The noise quickly turned into a chorus of alarm.

Jakt turned around, fearing the worst, only to be greeted by a peculiar sight. The dragon's corpse wasn't moving - not with anything resembling life, in any case. Instead, it seemed to be… disintegrating. Yellow flame engulfed the dragon's body as its scales broke off and floated upwards, burning away to nothing. The air twisted and crackled around the body, just like an open fire, but Jakt took a step forward and discovered that it didn't seem to be giving off heat. All of a sudden, a fierce wind circled out of the body, carrying tendrils of yellow flame that traced swirls and arches through the air. Jakt followed the path of the ropey, effusive fire as it twisted towards the sky, dumbstruck. Then, all at once, the many tendrils flashed towards him, converging on his chest. He threw back his head and howled, unable to stop the barrage of energy as it arced into him, flooding every corner of his body with a boiling, weightless sensation. Unable to control himself, his eyesight flashed white…

_He was stretching out his powerful wings, soaring high above the ground, splitting the air with a roar that could fell mountains, his mammoth, scaly body rippling with corded muscle, prepared to snap and tear and gnash at anything that dare impede him… To be alive, to fly again, after so many long years of blackness and Oblivion… Looking out over the horizon, he loosed a single gout of flame that seemed to stretch on forever, a boast of invincibility, a challenge to the heavens… Then, there, at the apex of his power, his domain stretching out above him, he looked down to see tiny mortals, scrambling with futile aplomb, desecrating the face of Nirn with their foul steps… _

The vision faded, and Jakt stumbled to his knees, dazed, humbled by the sudden return to his two-legged form. Drake and Lysana helped him to his feet, with looks of concern he found rather unbecoming of the both of them. Before him lay the bleached bones of the dragon corpse, completely stripped of all their flesh.

"What… happened?" he breathed, turning to face the others.

"You feinted," said Lysana in a quiet voice. She was looking at him curiously.

There was a moment of silence. Then, one of the men, a towering Nord built like a granite wall, stepped forward. His mouth agape, he struggled to find his words. At last they poured out, laced with wonder and foreboding.

"You.. You devoured his soul. You... are Dragonborn."


	4. Three in Whiterun

"I don't know what came over me," Jakt began, for the twelfth time, his words slurring together. "All of a sudden, I knew, _this was it_. It was us or him, that great scaly beast." He gritted his teeth, brought up his fists, then straightened up and laughed, and the pretty redguard girl who he was regaling this time laughed with him.

Quintus Drake chuckled to himself before throwing back his head and knocking back another glass of spiced wine. The kid deserved his moment. They were all heroes, but _he_ was Dragonborn.

Whatever in Oblivion that meant.

Somehow, it seemed as if every single inhabitant of Whiterun had made it into the Bannered Mare that night. If they hadn't been at the Jarl's little impromptu ceremony, then they had heard about the company's deed quickly enough. Afterwards, the crowds had swarmed to congratulate their new heroes, carrying them to the second ring of the city to a huge, blazing fire that had been built in their honor, and rolling out barrels of ale to crack open. All the attention was making Drake mighty uncomfortable, until a friendly nord offered him a drink, and then another, and then another… and pretty soon the evening had become a drunken haze, from which he was just beginning to emerge.

When nighttime finally fell and the celebration moved inside, Hulda the Innkeeper had pulled out all the stops, bringing out barrel upon barrel of Honningbrew Mead, Colovian Brandy, her finest Alto Wine, and even some bottles of Blackbriar Reserve, which made Drake think fondly of his most recent abandoned home. They drank to the living heroes, they drank to those who had sacrificed their lives, to those who lay injured in the Temple of Kynareth, to the dragon itself, who had given its own life and blessed them, indirectly, with such fine feats of daring… at that point it was all very much out of hand. The nords, it seemed, enjoyed every opportunity to crack open a barrel.

As it turned out, Jakt had a taste for Dragon's Breath Mead, which everyone found hilariously appropriate, which in turn meant he was never without a full glass. He was raging drunk, clearly unused to any sort of hero worship, and trying in vain to retain a sense of humility. Every fifteen minutes or so someone would shout "Dragonborn!" and the whole room would break out into a chorus of a popular nord folk song and dancing around him. It was altogether too much for him to comprehend, clearly, and eventually he sat himself down at a table and started rambling to anyone who would listen. This proved to be no small number of people, who came and went as they pleased.

Drake's two archers, who he found out were named Torvald and Vigge, kept headbutting each other, then trying to headbutt him, which left his head aching - a malady only cured by more spirits. The disease soon spread to a number of nord men, and friendly headbutts turned to squabbles, which inevitably broke out into fistfights. Drake slithered away from the violence and sat himself down at the bar next to a long-legged, tough looking Nord girl who looked vaguely familiar. She kept drunkenly calling herself something that sounded like 'Carl' and succeeded in matching him drink for drink. He found 'Carl' very attractive, in a distinctly nordic way, and was quite happy to be talking to her when Lysana Trystane plopped herself down next to him.

"Well well," he said, the words dripping out of him like coagulated honey, "If it isn't our friendly little mage. Have some brandy."

He pushed a glass towards her, which she took gladly, to his surprise. 'Carl', sensing the sudden shift in Drake's affections, rose and left to join the crowd chanting over two half-naked wrestling Nords. He paid her little mind, instead watching as Lysana took the mug in both hands and drained it. She looked splendid: She had traded her robes for a simple belted dress, and combed her shortish red hair so straight that it shone pale gold in the candlelight. Unfortunately, Drake was entirely too drunk to make any further progress on his quest to mentally undress her.

"This is _good_!" she purred after the brandy was all gone, licking her lips in satisfaction. Drake's stomach turned a somersault at the action. "I can't remember the last time I had some fun." She turned towards him, placed a hand on his arm, and actually _giggled_.

By the gods, Lysana was drunk! Or at least a little tipsy. The mood-altering effects of alcohol on women never ceased to amaze Drake. He had been quite prepared to pull out all the stops, but maybe that wouldn't be necessary.

"You look absolutely radiant," he said, shaking his head, "You should wear girl's clothes more often. Unless, of course, the College frowns on dress that isn't grey and bulky."

"The College frowns on a lot of things," She replied flirtatiously, her freckled cheeks flushed.

"Is that what brought you south? Tired of the chafing rules? Or the miserable cold, for that matter?" he asked. He found himself genuinely curious, for some reason.

"Well," she began, tracing her finger around her empty mug, "There aren't many… eligible bachelors in Winterhold, if you must know." she giggled again. "At least, not under the age of fifty."

"Too many books," Drake supplied helpfully, "Not enough sunlight, or mead." This was too easy!

"You know, Drake," she said, smiling in a manner that Drake found entirely seductive.

"Call me Quint," he interrupted her, surprising himself. He hated being called Quint.

"Quint. I'm surprised you're still here. You don't strike me as the type who… sticks around for breakfast, so to speak." She winked.

"Not usually," he laughed playfully, "but I have a good feeling this time."

"Of course," she said conversationally, leaning forward, "Now, are we talking about me, or our mutual friend there?" She gestured towards Jakt. He turned to look at him. The young nord was leaning awfully close to the redguard girl.

"Oh, him?" he asked incredulously, turning back to face the breton sorceress. "Let me cut you in on a little secret, lass. If we stick close to him, that boy is going to make us very, _very_ rich. And maybe even a little famous!" He started to laugh, but faltered when she failed to laugh along with him.

"Well then," she started, her cold eyes betraying her light, conversational tone, "You'd better keep a close watch on him. All of that wealth and fame might go to his head." She pointed over his shoulder again.

Drake turned back only to find that Jakt and the girl had disappeared. His drunken brain naturally fearing the worst, he forced himself upright and pounded over towards their table, elbowing his way through the rowdy, drunken crowd…

But Jakt was nowhere to be found. Drake shook his head, putting his mind at ease. The girl was a barmaid, after all, he'd seen her handing out mugs… they couldn't have gone far. He would find him in the morning. He trundled back over to the bar, ready to express his confidence in this plan to Trystane, but she too had disappeared. _Damn. _Shrugging his shoulders, he prepared to delve into the gaggle of drunken bodies, hoping to find 'Carl' again.

* * *

Jakt slowly became aware of a cool breeze wafting over his forehead as he drifted back into consciousness. The bed was soft, though, and his head burned like wildfire. He rolled onto his side, away from the source of the cool air. Somehow, the breeze persisted. Aching and confused, he rolled onto his back again and chanced opening his eyes, only to be blinded by an agonizing whiteness that felt like daggers stabbed up through his eyes and into his brain. With a grunt he screwed his eyes shut and slapped at his face, trying to ward off the cool air that seemed to be hovering over his head.

All of a sudden the breeze became a blizzard, an icy cold barrage of sleet and howling winds pelting and twisting at his face.

"What in Oblivion?" he growled, forcing himself upright and opening his eyes. Sunlight poured in from an open window, sending fresh spikes of pain plunging into his sensitive, aching head. He turned away from the window only to find a hand hovering over him, from which the cold air had been emanating. The hand was attached to the breton mage girl, Lysana, who stood at the side of his bed. She lowered her hand and tucked it somewhere in her robe, her face expressionless.

"What was that for?" he thundered, altogether too loudly. His own words rang in his ears, sending more agonizing shocks careening through his head. He resisted the urge to clutch his head with both hands.

"You weren't waking up," she said, slowly and quietly. Her gaze inched downwards for a second, her face turning ever so slightly pink. Jakt followed her eyes with his own and discovered that he was completely naked, bedclothes nowhere to be found, his manhood standing at rapt attention.

With a yelp he forced himself to his feet and struggled to cover himself. Lysana blushed crimson and looked away, leaning over and grasping a blanket that had been flung over to the far side of the room. She handed it to him without saying a word. There was a painful awkward silence as he wrapped it around his waist. He let out a fake cough to indicate he was done, and she turned back around to face him. Her flushed, embarrassed cheeks clashed violently with her hair.

"Now then," He said, his chest tight, his head a little too groggy to process their mutual embarrassment. "Uh, what happened last night?"

"You, my young friend, got very drunk," came the reply from behind him. He spun to see Drake framed in the doorway. He had dark circles under his eyes and was clutching a frozen chunk of ice to his forehead.

"How was she?" he asked, giving a wink that looked more like a painful wince.

Jakt looked around, unsure of who he was talking about. Drake laughed softly.

"I'll be damned," he said, "You've just been used, haven't you, chap?" he came over to Jakt, punching him playfully on the arm. "It ain't so bad once you get used to it, trust me." He laughed again, a little too loudly, then winced once more. Suddenly Jakt remembered how he'd gotten up to this room… Feeling fresh waves of embarrassment washing over him, he groaned, and Drake laughed a third time. It was a good-natured laugh, at least.

"It's almost noon," Lysana spoke up sharply, interrupting their camaraderie. Jakt turned back to her, seeing that she'd regained her composure somewhat. "And past time we got moving."

Jakt struggled to comprehend her sentence. "What do you mean, 'we?'" he said, sounding more accusing than he really felt. He expected Drake to chime in, but the imperial remained silent. Then his memories of the day before came flooding back. The dragon, the Jarl's speech, the numerous stories and myths and explanations… not to mention the party, and the serving girl… It was all a little too much for him. Feeling lightheaded and embarrassed, he sat down. Lysana's haughty, pointed face softened a little.

"Get dressed," she ordered, "We can talk about this over lunch."

* * *

Finally, the Dragonborn loped downstairs, fully dressed this time in his simple Stormcloak armor. Lysana repressed any lingering embarrassment as she watched him approach. Drake shifted uncomfortably in the seat beside her, muttering something under his breath, but she did not turn to look at him.

Doubt welled up inside her as Jakt threaded his way through the crowd that made up the Bannered Mare's noon rush. He nodded as a couple of strangers greeted him, accepting their congratulations awkwardly. She had to admit: he did not look like the _Dovahkiin_, the Dragon of the North, the mantle of Tiber Septim's legacy. He was lean for a nord, a little shorter than average, and the beard that decorated his face was a scraggly affair. And he was young - no older than she, she reminded her doubtful, nagging mind - but he clearly lacked discipline, unlike herself. The College had no patience for sloppy, time-wasting behavior, and neither did she.

At the same time, she had watched him come alive in the battle at the watchtower: he had good instincts, even if they were rash and untempered, and he had rallied the despairing guardsmen to victory with an air of leadership. The spark of potential was there.

Lysana repressed her silent conflict as he reached their table and sunk into the chair across from her. She took the tall glass of water resting before her, chilled with frost magic, and slid it to him. He smiled gratefully and gulped down the whole glass in a display of truly horrible table manners.

"Right then," he sighed, placing the glass back down and wiping his drenched lips with a furred gauntlet. "What makes you think traveling together is such a great idea? If that was what you were suggesting."

He locked eyes with her. They were soft and green: young eyes, hopeful, but with a twinge of sadness. Perhaps he was not as inexperienced and naive as she thought.

"Look, lad," Drake cut in, before she could answer. "I actually agree with this overblown magical trollop." Insulted at his words, she flashed a deadly glare his way, but the imperial ignored her and continued on. "You're not just a worthless nobody anymore, begging your pardon. You're the _Dragonborn. _You're going to need backup!"

"I can take care of myself."

Drake smiled and shook his head, jabbing his finger at the young nord. "Don't lock me out just yet, lad. Traveling with you was just becoming interesting!" he stood and swept his hands out before him in a grand gesture. "Imagine all the dragons out there that need slaying! And all the wealthy persons who need them slain, if you get my drift." He sat back down, a dazzling smile on his face, his hangover apparently forgotten. "And you really want to try and tackle the beasties on your own?"

Lysana raised an eyebrow at him as he flicked his eyes back and forth between his two table companions. She reminded herself of their conversation the night before: clearly, Drake was not one to be trusted. He was, at best, a liar and a thief, seeking to profit off of momentous happenings far too grand in scale for him to comprehend. And yet, the competitive atmosphere of the College had taught her to utilize everything at her disposal. He might prove useful after all.

Jakt sighed, rubbing his forehead, a seemingly conciliatory gesture. She took the opportunity and cut in.

"He's actually right," she said, "You _will_ need our help if you are to confront their return. You have a part to play-"

"Spare me," Jakt growled, his tone turning callous and bitter. "I heard enough of this talk from that fool wizard and all the rest of this Gods-forsaken city. I didn't _ask_ to be the Dragonborn, I didn't ask for _any_ of this responsibility!"

He lifted his empty glass up as he spoke and brought it down hard on the table for emphasis. It shattered upon impact, and Jakt grunted in surprise. In a flash a table boy appeared at his side, sweeping the shattered glass into a bucket.

"It's no trouble," he said, smiling down at Jakt. "No trouble at all for the Dragonborn!"

The rest of the tavern, in a quiet yet earnest echo of the previous night, raised their drinks in unison, and toasted him with a "Ho, Dragonborn!" As the serving boy hurried away, Jakt groaned and put his head in his hands. Lysana felt herself smiling despite the gravity of their conversation. Beside her, Drake chuckled. Still, she could feel Jakt's consternation, the fear and uncertainty that lurked behind his mostly stoic facade.

"Like it or not, Jakt," she began, trying a new tactic, "You are the Dragonborn. I saw you use the Thu'um on that dragon. Not to mention… whatever happened afterwards." she cleared her throat, clearly made uneasy even just thinking about his display of soul eating. "Do you know how difficult it is to learn the way of the voice?" She saw him lift his head out of his hands to stare balefully at her. "It takes even the most disciplined, hardworking students _decades_ to produce something like what you shouted in the course of an afternoon."

Drake evidently saw where she was going. "If I was you, lad," he began, a twinkle in his eye, "I'd want to learn to control it, to use it. Just imagine! Shouting your enemies to pieces!"

Jakt perked up. "Ulfric Stormcloak," he breathed.

Drake faltered. "What?"

"Haven't you heard the tales?" the young nord began, his breath short with growing excitement. "Ulfric used the Voice to slay the High King. I'll bet he can teach it to me."

Lysana opened her mouth to dissent, but Drake beat her to the punch. "Damn it all, Jakt," he said, shaking his head frantically. "That's as good as throwing in with him! You realize what Ulfric could do if the Dragonborn, the nord hero of legend, or whatever, was on his side?"

"Of course I do," Jakt replied, his voice turning harsh. "He could unite Skyrim against the threat of Imperial oppression, not to mention wipe the Thalmor off the face of the map."

Drake looked incredulous. While he struggled to come up with a reply, Lysana cut in again.

"Look, Jakt," she began, "I'm not sure throwing in with Ulfric is a good idea right now. For one, he studied the Thu'um with the Greybeards, or so the story goes, and they're supposedly the masters of the voice. There's no way, between fighting in the Great War, taking and holding Markarth, waging a war against the Empire, _and_ ruling as Jarl of Windhelm, that he had anywhere near the time to devote to learning the ways of the voice.

"Secondly," she continued, frowning as she spoke, "It's probably best for the Dragonborn to remain neutral. The dragons won't wait while Ulfric and the Empire squabble over the crown. Maybe when we know more about the threat they pose, then we can choose one side or the other."

Jakt looked unconvinced. "How can you be sure this civil war and the dragon reappearances are just coincidental?" he asked skeptically. "The way I see it, that dragon arrived in Helgen just in time to save Ulfric from the headsman's axe."

"So, let me get this straight," Drake replied, his face skeptical, bordering on smug. "You think the dragons' return is some sort of divine providence, the Eight throwing in their lot with Ulfric Stormcloak?" He laughed spitefully.

Jakt recoiled. "It's possible," he said defensively.

Drake shook his head, grinning, looking to Lysana for agreement. When she chose to remain quiet, his laughter faded into a sigh.

"Listen, lad," he started, his tone well-meaning, if a little condescending. "Windhelm is a long journey from here. In the meantime, the Throat of the World-" he gestured out the open window to the colossal mountain towering off in the distance - "isn't nearly as far. And besides, the Greybeards might have answers to questions like that, answers that Ulfric don't know himself."

Lysana caught his eye, mouthing a quiet word of thanks. Drake obviously understood the importance of what he spoke, for as he met her gaze she could tell he was resisting the urge to wink lewdly. Instead, his eyes shifted back Jakt, who sat silently, absorbing his words.

Finally, the young nord spoke. "You have a point," he admitted grudgingly. "The Greybeards most likely know more about all this. But none of this explains why I ought to let you tag along." He pointed at Drake. "Him I understand - he just wants a slice of the glory, and as far as I'm concerned, he's welcome to it."

Drake smiled sheepishly and shrugged. Jakt ignored him and leaned forward, staring into Lysana's face. "But what about you? What's your angle?" his voice was quiet, more curious than antagonistic. _At least he isn't half as stubborn as half the nords I know_, Lysana thought to herself as she absorbed his words; _he can admit when he is wrong, it seems._ But then, admitting he was wrong was not the same thing as admitting that she was right, something that a great many people who knew Lysana seemed to have trouble with.

She leaned back into her chair, unsure of how to answer his query. The College of Winterhold liked to keep to its own: a fact notorious throughout Skyrim, and one that had earned it a lot of ill will, perhaps deservedly so. Revealing their official business was like to get her a sharp reprimand, at the very best. At the same time, much was at stake. She remained quiet for another minute before Drake, his curiosity piqued as well, chimed in.

"Why were you in Farengar Mammoth-Breath's study when we delivered him the Dragonstone, anyways?" She flicked her eyes to him in annoyance. The imperial was sharper than his immature demeanor let on: most likely a purposeful charade. She cleared her throat and spoke.

"The sudden reappearance of the dragons touched off a whole manner of anomalies and inconsistencies in the flow of magic," she began, aiming to keep her answer short and to the point. "The College soon decided that it was a matter worth looking in to. Farengar, although a mediocre mage, is a worthy scholar, and a bit of an expert on the dragon cults that populated ancient Skyrim. He owed the College a favor, so they sent me out to collect it. I was to be included in any research and discoveries he made into reasons for their reappearance."

She paused. "Call it a hunch, if you will," she said, letting a little sarcasm slip into her tone, "But I figured that traveling with the Dragonborn might lead to some answers a lot faster than traditional research methods."

"Do the higher-ups at the College know about that little decision?" Drake asked, his mouth twitching smugly.

Lysana fought down a surge of wrath at his question, anger not directed at him, but rather towards the College. As if the upper echelon paid her a second thought when they sent her off on their little errand. She tried unsuccessfully to keep the iciness from her voice as she answered him.

"The College _will_ appreciate my prompt results," she said haughtily, pushing her seat backwards and standing up. "They value efficiency and timeliness, unlike petty thieves and drunken mercenaries." She cast a disapproving glare down on the two. Drake shook his head, smiling at the insult. Jakt merely raised his eyebrows.

"Now," she began, placing her hands on her hips, "This little interrogation is over. I suggest we-"

Lysana broke off as a nord female suddenly appeared at their table. She was taller than Lysana, and looked quite strong: her bare arms were toned, and a long, jagged scar rippled over her right bicep. The rest of her body was dressed in steel armor, reinforced with fur and leather and engraved in the nordic fashion. She had a sword belted to her side and a shield swung over her shoulder. She looked young, a feminine nose decorating a striking, angular face that men might find quite attractive, but her hard eyes and set jaw emanated experience. Her hair was darker than that of most nords, falling to brush her shoulders. Two small, ornate hair braids framed either side of her face.

"My thane," she said, bowing low to Jakt. Unsure of what to do, he stood and watched her uneasily.

"Uh," he started, at a loss for words, "Who are you?"

"I am your housecarl," she answered, "Lydia."

All of a sudden Drake stood. "Carl!" he exclaimed, his mouth twisted in a delighted grin. Lydia eyed him in confusion for a second and then turned back to Jakt.

"My what?"

"Your housecarl," she explained, impatience seeping into her tone. "Your sword and shield, and your servant." Lysana could tell right away that she was not a woman who liked to mince words.

"Oh, right," Jakt said, and Lysana could tell from the sudden understanding that flashed on his face that he was just now remembering that Jarl Balgruuf had effectively made him a Thane of Whiterun Hold. "And, uh, what exactly does a housecarl do?"

Lydia straightened up. "I am sworn to travel with you, Thane, to bear your every burden, and protect you and all that you own," she said, her voice clear and strong. "With my life, if necessary."

"What about your Thane's friends?" Drake asked, his voice trim and sardonic, his grin maniacal. "Are you sworn to bear their burdens as well?"

Lydia shot him a look, yet remained quiet. It was one of antagonism, mixed, perhaps, with interest? Lysana, for all her book learning, was hardly an expert in the realm of social interaction. She sighed inwardly. The strange ways of men and women bored her in all but a clinical sense.

Jakt cleared his throat, unsure once more of what to say. Clearly, he had little experience in matters of delegation - off the battlefield, at least. "Right," he began awkwardly, "Well, you look stout," he broke off when Lydia raised an eyebrow. "Er, that is, not _stout, _but rather, you look, ah, quite fit-"

"What he's trying to say is, he'd be honored to have your service," Lysana said, flashing Jakt an annoyed look. They were wasting time.

"Of course, lady mage," Lydia said, inclining her head. There was, to Lysana's relief, none of the usual suspicion that most nords reserved for magic users in her voice.

"Right then," Lysana said, gesturing to the two seated men, "Are we ready to get on the road then?"

Jakt and Drake exchanged a quick glance. The nord sighed, and then stood.

"The Throat of the World it is."

* * *

Jakt spent the afternoon walking next to Lydia, his new charge, trying to familiarize himself with the shieldmaiden. Initially put off by the bizarre and novel experience of having someone under his command, his discomfort faded slowly as they walked and talked. Lydia did most of the talking: she was the first nord he'd spent much time with since he and Ralof had gone their separate ways, and Jakt found himself asking many questions.

In the process he learned a little bit about her background. Unlike Drake and Lysana, who were as tight-lipped as he in that department, Lydia spoke openly about her past. Jakt found her honesty refreshing. She had grown up in Haafingar hold, raised by her now-estranged father, a legionnaire-turned-farmer who had desired a son. A capable soldier, made bitter by the Great War, he had instructed her in the more strategic-minded swordsmanship of the Imperial Legion, rather than the savage, traditional nord manner. By her seventeenth summer, owing to her increasingly drunken and abusive parent, she had run away, finding employ as a sellsword until the worsening political climate of Skyrim forced her to turn to desperate measures.

"Aye, but Jarl Balgruuf runs a tight ship," she was saying, her eyes downcast. "Whiterun hold has no patience for highwaymen, it seems, and his neutral stance on the war leaves him the manpower to come down hard on folk like us." She grinned at him ruefully. "That thrice-damned black elf of his and her guardsmen tracked us down near as soon as we set up shop. They gave the survivors a choice: swear service to the Jarl, or rot in the dungeons. Wasn't a hard choice."

She shook her head, then looked up and smiled at him. It was a warm smile, a carefree smile, despite the hardships of her earlier life. "Housecarl to the Jarl's cronies isn't such a bad job though, begging your pardon, my thane. Little more than a body guard, I am, and my sword-arm serves its purpose well. I guess I have pa to thank for all this after all." She patted her sword hilt good-naturedly and laughed at the perceived irony.

"I never knew my father," Jakt heard himself admit, unthinkingly. Suddenly aware of Lysana walking close in front of them, he clamped his mouth shut. Lydia's emotional honesty was infectious. The breton mage did not register his comment, however, if she'd heard it at all.

"I envy you that, my thane," Lydia said, smiling wryly.

"Please," Jakt started, uncomfortably. "just Jakt is fine."

They made camp before sundown. Lysana insisted they camp off the roads, to avoid patrols or other disturbances, so they traipsed off into the woods until they came to a small clearing. After setting up their furs and bedrolls, Lydia and Drake, who had been giving each other strange looks throughout the evening, went off hunting. Jakt had a sneaking suspicion that "hunting' was some sort of double entendre. So, while he sat laboring over slightly-damp brush and kindling, Jakt found himself alone with the breton mage.

Lysana watched him trying to light a fire for a little bit, then pulled out a book from her satchel. Jakt finished his task and pulled up a log, warming his hands and his feet. He looked over at Lysana, buried in her book, oblivious to the world, and sighed. She was quite pretty, even with her face scrunched up in concentration: her auburn hair, slightly tangled from their afternoon of travel, shone in the firelight, and dancing shadows traced soft outlines of her delicate features.

He tried to think of something to say, but his mind kept drawing blanks. He soon gave up and pulled out his new sword and the whetstone he'd bought along with it, and began to polish and sharpen the blade. He'd sold the draugr's greatsword at Avenicci's in Whiterun, netting himself one of her fine steel longswords in the process. Shorter and lighter than the greatsword, it was nevertheless longer and thinner than his old imperial blade, fashioned with a finely-embroidered crossguard and a hilt wrapped in supple leather. The pommel was carved in the image of a ram's head, with curled horns that made it appear roughly spherical. It was no Greymane, to be sure, but it was well balanced and finely crafted, and did not take long to polish. Jakt could tell that a sharpening was hardly necessary. He ran the whetstone along the blade a few times anyway: the quiet _sssshnkk _of stone on steel was strangely soothing.

Sheathing the sword, he looked over at Lysana. She was looking at him, her brow furrowed, a strange expression on her face.

"What?" he asked, confused. She didn't look annoyed by his noisy fidgeting - rather, she seemed deep in thought.

"Tell me something, Jakt," she asked, her face softening a little. "Are you lettered?"

Jakt laughed before replying. "Yes, actually. Are you surprised?"

Lysana smiled a shy smile, a hint of embarrassment flicking across her face. Something in the back of Jakt's brain _clunked_, like a horseshoe hitting an iron post, at that rare, sweet smile.

"A formal education isn't really the tradition here," she pointed out in response, somewhat reproachfully, her smile twisting into a frown.

"Yeah, well," Jakt answered, furrowing his brow at what could have been a slight, but deciding not to argue. "In my line of work, illiteracy can be damning. Mercenary companies like to prey on the unlettered, filling their written contracts with subterfuge. At worst, it is akin to forced servitude."

Lysana cocked her head. "Doesn't the Fighter's Guild in Cyrodil police that sort of thing?"

Jakt laughed again, but this time with a touch of bitterness. "Hardly, though it tries. The Fighter's Guild is a relic of the Septim Era. Like the Empire itself, its influence waned after the death of the last Septim Emperor. Private companies have no qualms against trickery, once freed from Imperial supervision, as it turns out."

Lysana nodded. "The College used to answer to the Mages Guild in much the same way, before it was disbanded. Or destroyed, rather."

Jakt nodded in reply. There was a brief moment of silence, before Lysana brandished her book, her face slightly bashful, and continued. "You might enjoy this book - I picked it up from the Apothecary while you and the thief peddled your sword. It's about the dragon cults, and the Dragonborn - the ancient nord legend, I mean."

Jakt felt a twinge of dread deep in the pit of his stomach. His reaction must have been visible, for Lysana looked confused and a little awkward as she let the book settle into her lap.

"Ah," Jakt replied, after a beat. "I'm not so sure I want to read that."

"Why not?" Lysana's expression changed from concerned to one of disapproval, a frown snaking its way onto her face.

"Well," Jakt began, trying to put his reluctance into words, "I guess I'm not sure I want to believe it's real. Me being the Dragonborn - it just seems too… colossal to be true."

"Refusing to learn about it doesn't make it any less real," she said, her tone sharp and a hint of scorn in her inflection. "That is why we are going to the Throat of the World, and not to Windhelm, after all."

Jakt shrugged, not meeting her eyes. He heard her _hmmmph _audibly, however, when he deigned to reply. At that moment he couldn't help but feel that he'd failed a test of character. There was a moment of silence as they both stared into the fire. The sun was below the tree line now, and dusk was beginning to settle about.

"So then," Lysana began again. "What purpose brings a company-less mercenary to Skyrim? Seeking to profit, perhaps, from civil strife? Or fleeing reprisal from a slighted guild master?"

Jakt looked at her again. A tendril of anger prickled irritably within him for a second, but he ignored it. She was obviously trying to get at something, or at the very least provoke him.

"I could ask the same of yourself," he started, avoiding her question but meeting her eyes. "Skyrim is hardly receptive to the magic arts, much unlike High Rock or even Cyrodil. And Winterhold is a harsh and unforgiving place, so I'm told - the College even more so."

Lysana _hmmphed_ again. "I expect my answer is the same as yours," she replied shortly. "Quite personal."

Jakt sighed. He did not wish to lapse into uncomfortable silence once more. Instead, he decided to indulge her curiosity, tempered though it was by her standoffish words. "I came here seeking family, I suppose."

"Family? That is… understandable." Her tone suggested she found it otherwise. "But in that case, why are you so intent on seeking out Ulfric Stormcloak and joining his crusade? Has the Empire wronged you so?"

Jakt glared at her, unsure of how to answer without compromising himself. He had no desire to confide in this strange, precocious woman.

"The Empire has wronged us all," he began with conviction that he did not quite feel. "I've seen too many horrors at the hands of the Thalmor _not _to condemn their inaction. And Ulfric Stormcloak seems to be the only one in all of Nirn with the courage to stand up to the both of them."

"Spare me the rhetoric, I have heard it many times," Lysana began scornfully, "At his heart Ulfric is no better than one of your mercenary companies! The Thalmor are a political boon for him, a convenient daedra to rally against. Without a strong Imperial hand to rein him in, he will abuse the trust of his subjects to achieve his own ends." She paused before continuing, narrowing her eyes. "After all, that is the nord way."

Jakt felt his face redden, his mind wheeling at that unfettered condemnation of his people. He opened his mouth to reply, trying to form a retort, but at that minute, Lydia came traipsing up, a dead deer thrown over her shoulder and a grin plastered on her face. Drake followed right after, whistling a tune, his steps jaunty. They both looked a bit disheveled.

"Good evening, lord and lady," Drake began, sweeping up and throwing himself into a grandiose, mocking bow, "Your meal will be ready shortly. We thank you for your kind patronage."

Jakt looked back to Lysana, but she had stood and moved over to the other two, her back to him. Truth be told, he was a little relieved. He had no desire to continue their verbal sparring. Lysana, it seemed, was even less trusting that he.

* * *

A/N: A talky chapter, but necessary! Now that the big bad triumvirate is established, we can get down to business.


	5. Blades in the Dusk

"_Wuld," _Jakt exhaled, jolting forward, faster than sound. His stomach somersaulted as the landscape before him became a blur of white, falling snow and misty clouds whirling past him. Then the mad dash ended, and he found himself beyond the black iron gate, just as it slammed shut, closed somehow by the grey-clad elderly men that stood on either side. A magnificent landscape peeked through the patchwork cloud cover: Skyrim, his homeland, as seen from the Throat of the World.

"Very good," rasped Master Arngeir , his mouth barely visible behind his long, tangled beard and the vapor created by his warm breath. Jakt hugged his own thick, grey robe closer to himself as he limped around the gate to stand before his master. The effort of shouting himself forward, repeated two dozen times that day already, was starting to show wear and tear on his muscles and his brain. Jakt's legs were stiff, his head groggy, his voice beginning to grow hoarse. The numbing effect of the extreme cold at High Hrothgar, the Greybeard's own castle near the summit, was actually detrimental, only adding to his exhaustion. He could feel the tiny icicles forming from either his sweat or his breath and clinging to his beard, but could not rise his arm to brush them off as to conserve his strength.

"You seem to have grasped that volume is not necessary when engaging the Voice," the Greybeard said. His use of the common Imperial tongue was slow and strained, most likely due to long periods of disuse. If the cold bothered him, he gave little indication. "Far too many treat who seek to learn its ways recognize it as a weapon or a tool, rather than a language, maligning it with coarse speech. The _Dov_ used it to communicate first, not only with themselves, but with the world around them as well: its potency in battle is only a stroke of a much larger painting. Do not forget this, as many mortals do."

Arngeir clasped his hands together, the long sleeves of his robes drooping past his waist. "As I have said before, your natural affinity for the _Thu'um _is nothing short of astounding. You learn at an unprecedented pace." Even though his words were congratulatory, Arngeir's wrinkled face was frozen in an impassive, neutral gaze. Jakt could sense his uncertainty, which had not faded since the young nord's arrival. He understood how they saw him: he was a dangerous anomaly to the Greybeards. Their devotion to the Way of the Voice had required great sacrifices on their parts, and their power over the Voice had come at a price. Jakt, conversely, was not at any such disadvantage. They would never say as much, but it was obvious that his raw talent unnerved them.

When he had first arrived at High Hrothgar, the Greybeards had debated whether or not to teach him at length, their rumbling dragon speech audible yet undecipherable through meter-thick stone walls. The beginning of Jakt's training had amounted to little more than philosophical musings, as the Greybeards struggled to imprint upon him their Way of the Voice. Arngeir , the only one of the four who spoke the common tongue, kept contradicting them, however: he reiterated often that the normal rules did not apply to the _Dovakiin, _as they preferred to call him. Each time he hid his gloom poorly.

After two weeks of lengthy meditation sessions, agonizingly slow lectures, and circular debates centered around the pacifist nature of their philosophy, Jakt had finally snapped, demanding some sort of actual, physical training. His outburst earned him yet another lecture about his potential abuse of the voice, but the four ultimately decided to honor his request, letting him draw on their experience and instructing him in the use of several basic shouts.

The results were exhilarating, but difficult, even for one so naturally talented. Jakt's attempts usually ended up as displays of brute strength: his efforts to move objects with a word of command were clumsy and forceful, lacking any sort of finesse, and often ended with the destruction of said object. Arngeir speculated aloud that this was due to his mercenary background – useful for a dragon-killer, he kept saying, but unfitting for a master of the Voice. His words were always laced at disapproval: not for Jakt's efforts, which seemed to impress him, but rather for the combination of Jakt's youth and potency.

All in all, by his third week, Jakt was immensely irritated. He did not feel beholden to these doddling old relics, who would rather sit and rumble to themselves than utilize their power for any cause, regardless of its nature. Indeed, High Hrothgar almost seemed an asylum of sorts, intended to sequester the Voice from the rest of the world, to keep it from wreaking havoc, when it was obvious to Jakt that it was capable of such great impact. His arguments with Arngeir always ended in frustration, the old man impassive and stern while Jakt practically shook with rage at his inaction in the face of injustice. Somewhere in the back of his mind Jakt understood that their Way of the Voice may have been relevant once, but now with dragons appearing and the whole of Tamriel falling to pieces, he could not see its appeal. Arngeir made it even worse by _understanding_ this logical progression and making little attempt to dissuade this line of thinking other than repeated lectures on its foolishness.

It did not help that the cold was practically inescapable. It seeped into everything, and even the Greybeard's thick fur robes and heavy stone fortress were not enough to completely blunt its bite. Altitude sickness reared its head as well, severely disorienting Jakt at first. During his brief stay he had obtained, at best, an uneasy truce in his battle against the elements, and even still they periodically rose up to assail him at particularly irritating moments.

So when, after two exhausting hours of using the Voice to propel himself forward in a madcap sprint, a diminutive robed figure materialized at the back entrance to the castle, Jakt immediately recognized his chance to escape the Greybeard's vexing presence, if only for a short while. He walked past Arngeir, who most likely thought little of his personal annoyance anyways.

It was Lysana, wrapped in a heavy fur overcloak that rendered her form even more androgynous. She held the cloak tightly about her shoulders, and Jakt could see a hint of her face behind her cowl, twisted into a grimace. He flashed her a smile as he walked up to her; the genuine happiness he felt at seeing her surprised him. The best effort to return his smile that she could muster was a slightly less pained look.

"Did you find it?" he asked, just as the wind picked up and plucked the words from his mouth. Lysana wheezed once and motioned back towards High Hrothgar. Jakt nodded and followed her inside, the Greybeards padding silently after them.

Once inside, Lysana sat herself down by the great hearth, lowered her hood, and unwound the long scarf wrapped around her neck. She leaned forward and inhaled deeply, her eyes closed, trying in vain to catch her breath. Her hair was streaked with tiny flecks of ice, and her already pale skin was whiter than bone. Jakt felt a twinge somewhere deep below his stomach. His attraction to this strange, severe woman unnerved him. He tried to push it out of his mind and instead opened his mouth to question her.

"Well?"

Lysana opened her eyes and looked up at him. They were ringed with dark circles, clouded with exhaustion. She shook her head, reaching into the folds of her cloak to withdraw a piece of parchment. Jakt took it and unfolded it, scanning the page, his mind turning somersaults.

_Dragonborn: _

_We need to speak, urgently. Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant inn. I'll meet you there._

_– A friend. _

"What in oblivion?" he asked, looking up.

"Someone beat us to it," Lysana said, finally opening her mouth. The words were strained.

"Where are Drake and Lydia?"

"They went to Riverwood, to the Inn. I told them we'd meet them there as soon as we can."

Just then Arngeir appeared, his drooping, ice-coated beard failing to mask the frown on his face.

"The Dragonborn should have been the one to retrieve the horn," he said, his voice rough and angry, rumbling like a thousand falling stones. "It is a necessary step in his ascension."

"Well, it sounds like I'll still have that chance," Jakt said wryly. He walked over to Lysana. She was breathing heavily, still trying to adjust to the extreme altitude. "I'll return when I've got it. She may as well stay here, she can't make the trek down so soon."

Arngeir drew himself up to his full height, his arms crossed. "That is not permitted, for her own safety. Only those trained in the _Thu'um _can hope to withstand the perils of High Hrothgar for long."

Jakt whirled to face him. "Are you serious!? Look at her!"

"Jakt!" Lysana said, standing. She held out her arms to steady herself, but stayed upright. "I'll be fine. We need to get moving."

The journey was much quicker on the way down, to Lysana's great relief, but Jakt was in such a foul mood that he barely spoke. To his very apparent consternation, Arngeir made him change out of his warm grey cloak, and he was forced to suffer the journey down in his light armor, with only a ragged sheepskin fur to keep him warm. Lysana kept an open flame in her palm the entire way down, a task that sapped her energy so much that she was glad he did not try to make any extensive conversation, as the effort to respond probably would have knocked her out.

Eventually, the steps gave way to cobbled stone, and the ground leveled out. The sleepy town of Ivarstead was a welcome sight after her rapid round trip to High Hrothgar. Once her head had cleared and her breathing came easier, nagging doubts forced her tongue. After all, Jakt did not seem very pleased with his training.

"Well, what was it like? What did they teach you?"

Jakt turned to her, his brow furrowed. "A whole lot of philosophical manure," he spat. "Waste of time, no thanks to you. No wonder Ulfric didn't stay for long."

Lysana recoiled, opened her mouth to retort in kind. How dare he blame her for his own shortcomings as a student! But then she remembered her misgivings about her own magical education, and the frustrations it bore. Harsh words would only further alienate him, something she could not afford.

"Come now," she replied, trying to keep her voice steady. "They must have taught you something of value. They had you practicing your shouts when I arrived – "

"Yeah, after almost three weeks of rambling," he retorted, "I think they were trying to get me to appreciate how difficult it was for them to study the Voice. But it sure as Oblivion isn't difficult for me."

"Yes, well," she responded, her tone drier than autumn leaves, "patience is wasted on the young."

"Oh please. You know as well as I do Skyrim can't afford patience. Every day I spent dawdling with them, the Empire is doing its damnest to stomp the spirit out of my people, while dragons burn their land and livelihood!"

He stopped and turned to face her, his mouth snarling. "And besides. You've no more patience than I am, and you know it."

Lysana had to fight to keep herself from cursing him. Ignoring his barb, she spoke, her voice cool and quiet. "Jakt. You don't know what you're talking about. These _aren't _your people, and this isn't your land. Like it or not, you're an immigrant. So stop acting so self-righteous!"

Jakt's eyes widened. He drew himself up to his full height, and she suddenly became aware of his true size. His face darkened like a thundercloud, ready to spit lightning. For a minute she thought he might hit her.

When he spoke, his voice was deep and deadly. "You have no idea, _no idea at all_, who I am. And you have no idea what it's like to have no place of your own, nowhere or nothing to keep you safe, no structure or rules to hide behind!"

Lysana matched his thundering visage with an equally icy glare, but she felt her resolve melting away inside. The desire to provoke him slowly disintegrated, and she could feel her face softening. Not quite conscious of what she was doing, she reached out and placed her hand on his upper arm. It hovered there, awkwardly, unsure of itself. The storm on his face broke, replaced with a look of surprise.

"Actually," she began, "I do have an idea." Her words were soft, conciliatory, and she watched his shoulders slump, his anger recede. Something strange pricked at her stomach. Guilt, perhaps? Pathos? He lowered his eyes, avoiding her gaze, his mouth clenched.

"Listen," she began, when he did not speak. "I know what it's like to feel stuck like this. But just imagine all the good you can do with the approval of the Greybeards. Imagine how you could help Ulfric as a fully realized dragonborn."

He raised his eyes. "You would – I mean – you wouldn't stop me?" his voice was hopeful, but his mouth remained stuck in a frown.

She forced herself to smile, despite the pit of doubt that swirled in her abdomen. "Maybe – you're right. He might know something about all this. He is a student of the Voice, just as you are, after all.

"Just, promise me, when you _do _meet him, that you'll try and see him like I do – not as a paragon of Nord honor and virtue, or anything, but a cunning man with broad ambitions and _considerable_ enemies."

She stopped for a moment, and her smile became a little more genuine.

"And besides — there probably isn't much I _can _do to stop the Dragonborn."

* * *

Lysana was quiet for the rest of their voyage, giving Jakt time to calm himself and think. He appreciated her silence, but part of him wished she would open up a little, tell him what she had meant about understanding his particular pain. At the same time, he did not know the best way to go about starting such a conversation, so he matched her silence with his own.

They made good time back to Riverwood, sticking to the road, stopping only when absolutely necessary. The weather was positively sunny by Skyrim's standards, and not a hint of trouble stayed their path. Even still, Jakt felt a strange sense of foreboding. Whoever had replaced the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller with the note had obviously been keeping a close eye on him. And from what he had gleamed from Arngeir, the Nordic tomb that contained the horn – Ustengrav, if he remembered correctly – was no stroll though the park. It made him uneasy, to be watched so, just as being celebrated in Whiterun had, only now the watcher was an unknown quantity. The fact that the mysterious spectator had referred to him as "friend" hardly stilled the agitation that swirled in his brain. He was used to being simple, dumb muscle for hire, a cog in a complex machine.

Riverwood was a welcome sight. The relief he felt upon reaching its makeshift wooden guard posts surprised Jakt: it felt comfortable, almost, like a well-worn tunic. He had spent so much time traveling over the past decade that the feeling was unfamiliar. Barely a month prior he had staggered into the small, sleepy village, only to be met with a welcome he had not felt since his mother had died - the warmth of kinship. He felt the sudden urge to seek out Gerdur, the miller who had put him up for a night, to thank her again, and to ask after her brother Ralof, his comrade-in-arms during his brief but fateful visit to Helgen.

Lysana, however, kept him on track, leading him straight to the Sleeping Giant Inn. Two children raced by him, giggling, as they walked towards the building, the largest in Riverwood, pursued by a shaggy dog that barked happily. The blacksmith who had employed Jakt at his forge for an afternoon, to help him raise a bit of coin so he could afford to repay his benefactors, looked up from his anvil and nodded stoically as the two passed. Lysana paid him no heed, but Jakt smiled cheerfully and waved. _It feels almost like coming home. _

Lysana stopped in front of the door and turned to regard him. Uncertainty shown in her eyes, and Jakt's feelings of content drifted away.

"I'm sure that Drake and Lydia will be waiting for us," he said to her, "With the horn and, well, whoever wrote that note,"

Lysana's response was a simple nod. She turned back and opened the door, slipping inside. Jakt followed her.

The inn was empty, save for a solitary figure that stood in the middle of the room. The inn was dimly lit; it took him a minute as his eyes adjusted from the midday sun to the half-light inside the building. He heard a sharp intake of breath from Lysana at his side as the figure stepped forward. Then he recognized the dull gleam of a naked blade, ever so slightly curved, held tightly to the chest and pointed up in a defensive stance. He heard someone whisper something indecipherable in a far corner of the room.

All of a sudden time slowed. There was a loud clap as a flash of light rushed past him and he became aware of a falling form to his side, tumbling to lay prone. He turned his head to see Lysana's form, unmoving, then turned back to the figure in the middle of the room only to find it closer now, sword no longer locked upwards, but rather swinging in an arc towards his head.

Jakt threw himself to the side, crashing haphazardly into a set of chairs next to a crooked wooden table and sending them flying. He grabbed frantically for his sword and drew it from its scabbard, just in time to deflect a vertical slash that would have bit deeply into his arm. He pushed all concerned thoughts of Lysana to the back of his mind as he locked blades with the stranger. He tried to put pressure on his blade only to find that his attacker had retracted its own sword, only to send it arcing in from the opposite angle. Jakt screamed furiously as he threw his blade up, once again, somehow, just _barely_ catching the attack with his own blade. Quick as a flash, it was gone, and Jakt somehow remained alive, although that would not be the case if he could not regain his composure.

His assailant was not going to allow him any pause, it seemed, and in the rush to keep up with the lightning-fast strikes he could barely make out his attacker. He only caught glimpses of fair skin and long, sandy hair behind the deadly tempo of their flailing blades. Whoever this attacker was, he was unbelievably quick, and began forcing him backwards with a series of rapid strikes designed to confuse and overwhelm him. Jakt backpedaled frantically, just barely managing to keep the wicked blade from tearing at his lightly-armored flesh with a combination of desperate parries and dodges. All of a sudden he felt the back of his calf collide with an overturned piece of furniture, but he was too late to stop; his balance utterly lost, his momentum sent him tumbling backwards, crashing into a heap, bruising his lower back as he crunched a poorly-made chair into kindling with his bulk. He struggled to recover, his heart beating furiously in his mouth, fear thumping at his chest as he expected at any minute to find himself impaled. Then he looked upward to find that his dogged attacker had retreated a few paces, the wicked curved sword once again clutched close to his chest, its point held so high as to practically scrape the ceiling.

His eyesight no longer obscured by the pall of impending death - not to mention finally used to the dim light of the inn - Jakt found himself looking into the face of a smallish woman, utterly unremarkable in appearance, dressed in a simple belted dress. Her face was slightly wrinkled, her braided hair - fair like a nord's - tinged with grey, but her eyes were bright and piercing. She kept her visage utterly blank. A beat passed as the two stared at each other. She seemed to be waiting for him to act, so he stood slowly, then brought his own blade up to match her poised position. Her sword, aside from its gentle curve, was as unremarkable as she; it had a single edge, barely any crossguard, and a hilt bound by blue-black leather.

"Your body is quick," she said. She spoke dismissively; it was not meant as a compliment. Her voice was sharper than steel and husky in its tone. "But your mind cannot keep up, it seems."

Jakt felt a surge of anger. Who was this old woman, to lure him here, attack his companions, and now criticize his intelligence? He rushed forward, sword leading, intending to overpower her with his brawn. Instead he found himself rushing towards empty air, out of control, then felt a painful slap - the flat of her blade, no doubt - on the back of his upper thigh. He skidded to a stop and turned to find the woman in the same position as before, one eyebrow raised.

"You can't fight me like that, boy," she said, a hint of a smile playing about her mouth. "I've lived in Skyrim for longer than you've been alive. Don't expect to rush at me like a slobbering, drunken Nord and get anywhere close to me."

Jakt's rage nearly overwhelmed him then. He had not been humiliated like this since the days of his youth! He prepared to rush her again, but caught himself; she was obviously toying with him, trying to goad him. Why wouldn't she? She held every advantage.

Well, he could think of one thing that she would not expect. He started forward, sword held low, pretending to build up momentum for another helter-skelter charge, saw her eyes flash as her body tensed ever so slightly. But instead of leading with his blade, he led with his voice.

There was a crack like thunder as Jakt shouted out the words, one after another.

"_FUUUS - RO!"_

The woman's eyes widened and her mouth gaped open as a wall of pure energy exploded towards her, driving her backwards a few steps and on to her knees. Jakt was upon her then, his coiled muscles propelling him forward, not giving her any chance to recover. His sword hummed like a wasp as he struck again and again, matching her speed with youthful vigor. Her face turned from surprise to determination as she met his every stroke with her own blade, turning his steel harmlessly away in an arc. He kept up the pressure but even still found himself outmatched by her sheer finesse. He watched, dumfounded, as she forced herself from a kneeling position onto one foot, then the other, all the while sending his rapid strikes flitting away harmlessly. Then it was over.

"Enough!" she said aloud, a firm resolution, hardly a shout, and somehow she maneuvered her blade inside of his and pushed hard, sending it sprawling out wide. With one fluid movement she leapt up and kicked him in the chest, sending him, once again, sprawling backwards, crashing into a table and upending it. As he collapsed to the floor, followed by cutlery and splintered wood, he felt his sword careen out of his hands to land somewhere out of his reach. He looked up to find the woman standing over him, her sword pointed at his throat. She held it there, her face utterly expressionless. Jakt felt his body trembling slightly - not in a long time had he been so thoroughly overwhelmed in a fight with a single opponent._ A shameful way to die_. He closed his eyes.

A moment passed. He opened them again to find that the woman had moved away from him, and was now tending to Lysana, who was sitting up groggily. As he gaped in confusion a big lug of a nord that Jakt vaguely recognized as the barman came over and offered him a hand. Jakt took it and let the big man yank him upright.

"Good job, lad," he said, his foul breath somehow breathing life back into Jakt's bruised body. "Haven't seen anyone give her a run for her money like that in a long time."

Jakt merely gaped. Clearly the man meant him no harm, although he was crazy if he thought Jakt a match for this insane opponent. What exactly had just happened?

"Orgnar," called the woman from the corner, "Go and fetch her something to drink." The big man nodded and turned away, kicking his way through broken furniture and grumbling about the mess. Jakt stood for a moment and took in the ruin that the fight had caused; still unsure of what to do, he picked his way over to his sword and retrieved it. The woman watched him warily the whole time, and he locked eyes with her as he slid it home into the scabbard at his belt.

"Clearly it wouldn't do me much good anyway," he said bitterly. She simply cocked her head at him. Orgnar appeared by her side with a mug for Lysana, at which point she stood and picked her way through the smashed inn towards him. She stopped about a yard away, looking him up and down, sizing him up before she spoke.

"Forgive me," she began, though her tone was hardly conciliatory. "I had to be sure of who you were. False dragonborn are much more common than one might think. Gods know who might be watching this."

"Well, here I am," he replied, his voice almost childlike in its sulkiness. Jakt couldn't help himself - he felt more like he'd just been punished for stealing a sweetroll than defeated in single combat. He looked past her to Lysana, who was shaking her head as if to clear it.

"She'll be alright," she said, ignoring his petulant response and pointing with her thumb over her shoulder at Lysana. "Simple paralyzing spell. Orgnar's got a few tricks up his sleeve."

"Why was all of this necessary?" Jakt asked, raising his voice. "Obviously, you don't intend to kill us."

The woman simply stared hard at him. He had been prepared to keep blustering, but the intensity of her gaze checked his anger. _Whoever she is, this woman is terrifying._

She looked him in the eyes for a moment, then the spell was broken as she lowered her eyes and sighed. "I wish it hadn't been necessary. I'll explain everything shortly. Unfortunately, you still have one more test to pass." She turned away and began to walk back towards Orgnar, who was helping Lysana upright.

A million things whirled through Jakt's mind at that moment. All he could think to ask, however, was, "Who are you?"

She stopped and turned to fix him with another stare before answering.

"Delphine."

* * *

"That woman is a murderous_ witch_!" Drake raged at the group. "And if you think I'm going anywhere else with her than you're as batty as she is!" The woman smiled thinly at his words, and Lysana could only raise her eyebrows. The rest of them gathered around the table ignored his protestations with pained looks on their faces.

Delphine had led them through a false door at the back of a wardrobe in one of the inn's rooms, down a narrow staircase and into the study. The walls were decorated with old campaign posters of the Septim Empire that must have dated back to before the Great War. Several curved swords like the one Delphine had at her side sat secure in a rack in one corner. Every wall contained shelves stuffed either with books, alchemical ingredients, glowing soul gems or other miscellaneous treasures. Finally, of course, it contained Drake and Lydia, who had apparently spent some time confined there.

"Like it or not, Drake," Jakt said, "She has the horn, and I have no desire to try and take it from her." His words were clipped and short, almost sulky, but Delphine's face maintained its razor-thin smile. Lysana slipped quietly away while Drake and Jakt argued with Delphine. Lydia did not seem too perturbed by the events of the past few days, but the imperial was positively livid - Lysana could only imagine what means the clever woman had used to capture and contain him. The thought made her smile.

But of more pressing importance was the identity of their erstwhile host. Delphine looked to be of breton blood, perhaps mixed with nord, not unlike Lysana herself. She did not hail from Skyrim, however, speaking common Imperial with no trace of any accent. She was clearly paranoid, with great cause to fear any intrusion: hence Lydia and Drake's capture, as well as Delphine and Jakt's brief entanglement. Lysana frowned at the thought: though she had been unconscious for the battle, she could guess the outcome quite easily, for the young man's pride was obviously wounded. _These fool nords and their honor._

Jakt would recover, however, and if he had any sense he would seek to learn from this mysterious woman. It was little concern of hers, though. Lysana glanced over her shoulder to regard the group. At that moment Jakt was speaking quietly, trying to contain Drake's anger; Delphine stood at attention, while Lydia sat on the edge of the table, twiddling her thumbs. ` Lysana fought the urge to go over and investigate the enchanter's table that sat in one of the corners. Instead she ruffled through the books on the shelves, looking for some sort of clue. Perhaps a scrap of paper, buried in between musty tomes, that revealed an inkling about Delphine's identity. But there was nothing, just treatises on history, books about battle tactics, mundane recipes for everyday potions. Lysana scanned back over the shelf that seemed to contain the histories that Delphine until she found one that intrigued her. The title read, _The Fall of the Blades._

She knew little of the Blades - Septim military doctrine did not especially captivate her - but she did know one thing. _The Thalmor made sure that the White-Gold Concordant outlawed such topics._

She reached for the book, drew it out of the shelf. It was bound with blue-black leather, simple and undecorated. Lysana fought the urge to open it then and there.

"Mage!" came a sharp call from the other end of the room. Lysana slipped the book into her satchel in what she thought was a pretty subtle fashion, then turned. _Don't look guilty._

Delphine and the rest of them were eyeing her. The woman's eyes were like spears, bright and pointed and aimed directly at her. She felt her spine stiffen, her palms grow clammy. Petty thievery was Drake's lot, not hers!

"Lysana," Jakt said, stepping forward, "We were hoping you might help us with the locations of a dragon burial."

Lysana let herself relax. She felt Delphine's gaze remain on her as she walked over to join the small circle. She turned to address the woman directly.

"Forgive me," she said, "I was distracted by your library. Though it is hardly extensive, it nevertheless contains some interesting tomes."

"A scholar of Winterhold such as yourself is always a welcome presence," Delphine replied softly. Her tone was quiet, but Lysana thought she could feel mockery in her words, and she felt her face flush.

"We hoped you might know the location of a dragon burial," Jakt interjected, "It was originally written in ancient nordic, and references the names of places we've never heard of." He pointed to the text on the table before him, no doubt the translation that Farengar had gleaned from the Dragonstone.

"Nearest I could tell, it's referring to somewhere in the Rift," Drake said, his voice resigned, but still a little testy.

Lysana bent over and read the circled portion, which contained a description of the mound based on relevant landmarks. Clearly, the text predated the Septim dynasty - and most likely the Reman and Alessian empires as well. Lysana paused and ruffled through her satchel, through the half-dozen books she kept on her person to withdraw a heavily-marked pocket atlas of Skyrim. It had belonged to the scholar at the college, a temperamental orc by the name of Urag gro-Shub, and it had cost her many long hours of cataloguing to borrow the book. Urag had made countless little notes of ruins, roads and landmarks, nordic, dwarven and otherwise. It was a simple matter of cross-referencing the notes from his atlas with the description from the translated dragonstone.

"It's near Kynesgrove," she said after a moment. She looked up to find Jakt smiling grimly. Drake's face was petulant, but Lydia looked stoic as always. Delphine stood with a horrible, expressionless look on her face. Nobody spoke.

"I guess that's where we're headed, then," Lysana offered. Nobody replied.

* * *

"You've gone too far this time, lad," Drake hissed at Jakt as they walked side by side. "That horrid woman is dangerous and evil. Not to mention _old_. I can't believe you let her talk you into this!"

Truth be told, Jakt did not know why he had accepted Delphine's task with so little qualms. She was welcome to the horn of Jurgen Windcaller; he had no desire to return to High Hrothgar anytime soon anyways. It was also obvious that she meant to track down a dragon, and nightmares about the _last_ one he had faced still plagued his beleaguered mind. Perhaps it was because she had humiliated him so thoroughly, though Jakt felt no desire for vengeance.

Instead, he was captivated by her. Not in a physical sense, but he wanted to understand her, to learn from her. She was the most talented swordsman he had ever fought, and he had fought against men and mer that had more than two hundred years of experience fighting on Tamriel's surface. And she said so little, gave nothing away. She was utterly, completely paranoid, and it was clear that she could slay any and all of them with minimal effort. Who was she? Why was she permitting their motley band to travel with her? What stake did she have in the affairs of the Dragonborn?

Lysana knew something, though. Jakt had been traveling long enough with her to know when she had some tidbit she wanted to discuss; she was constantly biting her lip (he noticed, of course, because he found the motion quite attractive, a fact that bothered him in it of itself). But during the journey, short as it was, they never had a moment alone together to discuss their mysterious traveling companion. He suspected that Delphine had a hand in that, kept playing the group off of each other, although she was very subtle about it. _Then again, her paranoia could just be infectious. _

They had crossed into the Rift on the third morning, and now they drew near Kynesgrove. It was quite green, wooded country, and temperate - to the extent that Skyrim might be called as such, anyways. Jakt found it peaceful enough and liked it well, though he missed Whiterun's rolling plains. Drake knew the Rift well, it seemed, for he served now as their guide, leading them towards the small town in the most direct route he knew of.

The Imperial was in a foul mood as the afternoon sun began dipping low in the sky. He had antagonized Jakt on and off for the entirety of the trip, however, so this was hardly new.

"She knows something, Drake," Jakt replied, "About the dragon's return-"

"And you think doing her bidding will lead her to aid us?" he hissed. "No, it'll only drive us further into her agenda, whatever that is. Whoever that hagraven really is, you don't need her as an ally of any sort."

Jakt paused before replying, choosing his words carefully.

"You seem awfully invested in all this, Drake. If it's just money and fame you're after, there are much less dangerous ways to do it than fighting dragons."

Drake glared at him, shook his head, and then sighed. "I suppose I - well, I don't know. A dragonborn can make for a powerful friend, and to be honest I don't have many of those left."

Jakt was a little stupefied - was the man actually confiding in him? Clearly the past few days had rattled Drake's brain a little more than usual.

"Truth be told, I spent… I spent a long time in the Rift, and I've missed it."

"What were you doing there?"

He sighed again. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Jakt did not reply. He wasn't sure what to say; it sounded an awful lot like Drake was asking him for help, albeit in the most roundabout way possible. The young nord was a little bit dumbfounded - he'd regarded his imperial charge as a fair-weather friend for so long that trust was hard to come by. Then again, who amongst this rag-tag group really deserved Jakt's trust?

"Listen," Jakt finally said, "If we survive whatever Delphine's got planned, maybe we'll… maybe I'll see what clout I have as dragonborn around these parts."

Drake studied him for a long moment as they walked, then broke out into one of his toothy grins. But there was something a little different about it - something akin to gratitude peeked through the practiced, jaunty smile.

"Aha!" said Drake suddenly, breaking eye contact and looking at the road ahead of him. "We're nearly there."

Dusk was nearly upon them when they reached the town. It was little more than a small huddle of thatched cottages, situated on a raised clearing. Sheepskin tents dotted the perimeter of the clearing, and the entrance to a mineshaft was hewn into the side of an outcrop that glittered the telltale green of malachite ore. Drake had mentioned offhand that the village was so named because it was built in a clearing the middle of a forest sacred to Kyne, or Kynareth as the Imperials called her: the Goddess of Nature. It relied on a small mining community for trade, as no sacred trees could be felled to make way for farmland.

As their little party crested the hill at the center of town, however, it became immediately apparent that something was very wrong. A small group of townsfolk huddled about anxiously. A woman, a nord by her height and fair-colored hair, standing at the outskirts of the throng noticed them and hurried over.

"There's been a dragon sighting," she said, her face worried and fearful, before any of them could speak. "I fear that you've come to Kynesgrove at a bad time, travelers."

Jakt opened his mouth to say something, to reassure her that they had come prepared to deal with dragons, but Delphine beat him to the punch.  
"Which direction?" she asked curtly. At this point the rest of the villagers had noticed their group and began to pad over towards them. The woman's worried face turned to one of surprise.

"Er - northeast."

Delphine did not even bother to reply, just set off in a northeasterly direction. Jakt gaped at her, while Drake stepped forward to address the nord woman and the rest of the villagers.

"Have no fear, ladies and gentlemen!" he began, motioning for Lydia and Lysana to follow Delphine but imploring Jakt to stay. "You're in luck. We happen to be dragonslayers of the highest caliber, and we came well prepared!"

He raised his fists and the crowd's murmurs quieted.

"For this man here-" he draped an arm around Jakt as he spoke - "is none other than the Dragonborn of old! Master of the voice, the soul of a dragon in the body of a man!"

He turned to Jakt as the crowd remained silent. "Give us a shout, Jakt," he murmured.

Jakt rolled his eyes, then turned away from them. He had to admit, he was beginning to warm to Drake's flair for the dramatic. He sucked in air in preparation for the shout.

"_YOL_!" he cried, feeling his breath turn to flame, pouring outwards out of his mouth and upwards into the early evening sky. The villagers cried with awe, and perhaps fear. Jakt kept the shout brief and controlled, however, and the flames licked upwards only to dissipate into the dusk. The demonstration ended, he turned back to face them, and Drake grabbed his arm and raised it up.

"Dragonborn!" he yelled in his reedy voice, and the villagers joined him. Just then Jakt felt a jab on his arm and he turned to find Lydia, her eyebrows raised.

"The dragon, my thane?"

"Ah, yes," he said, awkwardly, and he followed her into the forest. He did not look back as the villagers applauded.

The fear began as a dull ache that rose from deep in the pit of Jakt's stomach. By the time he had reached the glade where the burial lay, it had worked its way up through his spine and into his skull. His mouth was dry and shriveled, and he could feel the beginnings of a migraine flitting around in the back of his head.

The glen was relatively large, a forest clearing almost as big as Kynesgrove, with a simple raised mound that was surrounded by a ring of low stones, half buried in the forest floor. The last vestiges of daylight had given way to the early evening sky, and though the stars were not yet visible, Tamriel's twin moons peeked over the trees ever so slightly. Jakt joined the others at the near end of the glen, crouched behind a felled, rotting tree splayed over a lichen-covered outcrop.

"What's going on?" hissed Drake, from behind him, only to be quieted by an intense glare from Delphine. Then her eyes widened and she turned her head upwards.

As if to answer Drake's query, an otherworldly roar pierced the calm of the forest. A colossal shape, blacker than midnight, flapped into view and positioned itself over the mound in the center of the glade. There was a great mass of leathery wings, with scales that seemed to absorb the precious little daylight, and jagged bony spines that ran the length of a lithe, serpentine body. Jakt could make out the crown of horns that protruded from the beast's head. It was the dragon from Helgen, the one that had set him free and sealed his fate. The fear became pain, prickling at his sides and feet, and he struggled to keep his breathing under control.

As the small party huddled together behind their makeshift cover, Jakt understood that this foe was beyond any of them.

"We can't fight him," He hissed. Delphine glanced his way and nodded, her mouth tight.

"What do we do?" Drake's voice quivered.

"Wait it out," came Lysana's whisper, "He's doing something, some sort of ritual-"

The dragon's voice, a deep rumble, cut her off. It was in the dragon tongue, and Jakt understood next to nothing. It seemed, however, that the great black beast was commanding the mound to move - to _live again._

A massive, clawed appendage burst forth from the earth. What followed was the remains of a bony wing, then another, held together not by sinew, but by some otherworldly force. Clumps of dirt flew every which way as more and more of the massive skeleton unearthed itself. Bleached white, the bones shone in the early moonlight. As the head and torso shook themselves loose from their grave, there was a loud _crack, _like thunder. All of a sudden, an ice-cold wind cut the still evening air, and particles of colorless light began to diffuse out of nowhere, dancing around the corpse. The massive skeleton rattled and shook as it raised its head, and the light and wind converged right above its open, empty jaw, swirling to a point in eerily beautiful spirals. Muscle and blood and scales grew outward from that light, spreading over the stark-white bones and cloaking the bony skull in a brand new skin.

Jakt's throat tightened. He'd seen this before, only in reverse. If they acted now, perhaps he could stop it, somehow. He turned around to catch Delphine's eyes. They were white, her pupils wide. She caught his eyes and stared back for a moment.

"Now," he whispered. She shook her head. Instead, she turned to Lysana.

"Mage," she began, her words quiet and deadly calm. "Start casting. Stoneskin. Protection against fire. Memorize some projectiles too. _Now."_

Lysana closed her eyes and opened her mouth, whispering, her fingers dancing in circles. Jakt looked away and back at the dragon, who was nearly whole now. He felt a calm wash over him and looked down, seeing the familiar blue-green glow of Lysana's stoneskin spell. The sensation that followed was an uncomfortable itching, all over his body, like friction against blistered skin, and he saw the blue-green aura turn a purple hue. The itching subsided, and Jakt faintly registered that there were not one, but two protective skins covering his body - one bluish, the other a pale red. His fear, however, was far from quenched. He turned back towards the scene in the middle of the glen.

At this point, the dragon was fully revived, tightly bound with flesh once more. It pointed its huge muzzle skyward and bellowed a greeting. The horned black dragon replied in kind, its low rumble rustling the leaves in the trees ever so slightly.

"_Sahloknir," _it began, before rambling on in its imperceptible tongue. Jakt gathered that Sahloknir was this particular dragon's name. It was clear to Jakt who was the superior; Sahloknir's pose as it listened to its airborne compatriot was one of unmistakeable deference.

Sahloknir rumbled something in reply, then turned and looked straight in Jakt's direction. Drake gasped, and attempted to pull him behind the relative safety of their outcrop, but he did not back away. The horned one turned its gaze upon their hiding place as well. Jakt turned his gaze on his companions, who all seemed to be frozen in fear. The jig was up.

"They knew we were here," said Delphine, her face taut. "They wanted us to see that."

Lysana was still casting spells on the others. If the dragons attacked now, there would be no questioning the outcome. They needed a little time.

"What do we do, Jakt?" asked Drake with pleading eyes.

Jakt ignored him and stood, walking out from behind their makeshift cover. He stopped after only a few steps and placed his hand on the sword hilt at his side. His gaze, which he hoped was sufficiently defiant, shifted from Sahloknir to the horned black beast. It snorted through slitted nostrils and began to speak. Jakt only caught one word - _Dovahkiin - _but it was pretty clear that it was insulting him. He did not respond.

After a moment, the black dragon opened its mouth once more. "You do not even know our tongue, do you?" he began, this time in Imperial common. He spoke slowly and with great difficulty, as if every word had to be chased down, forcibly swallowed, and then vomited back up. His accent was utterly bizarre and Jakt could barely understand him.

"Such _arrogance_, to dare take for yourself the name of _Dovah_."

Jakt swallowed, then replied. "Who are you?" His voice sounded high and helpless in comparison.

The dragon bellowed, its huge chest shaking in what might have passed for laughter.

"Fool! I am your _God."_

And with that, it turned to its underling, and gave a curt order in its own tongue. Then, with nary a sound, he was gone.

"Jakt!" came Lysana's voice, "Dive for cover!"

But he was already moving, sword in hand, hoping to reach the grounded dragon before it could take off. _Just a few more yards- _

Guessing his plan, Sahloknir's tail whipped out from behind him. Spotting it just in time, Jakt threw himself into a tumble, barely avoiding the lithe, scaly appendage. The dragon roared its defiance and launched itself upward with a mighty leap, beating its wings desperately to gain altitude.

Jakt turned to the others, who had piled out of cover. "Regroup on me-"

"No!" came Delphine's sharp rebuttal. "Stay separate, and moving. Don't give it a mass to focus on!"

She was right. He cursed silently.

"This stupid bastard's just woken up from being dead for more than a millenia," she continued, "Jakt and I will draw its attention. You three, try and bring it down before it can -"

But their brief reprieve was up, and Sahloknir roared overhead, barreling down on them. They scattered as his powerful hind legs raked downwards, scoring the earth where he had previously stood. It didn't land, however, preferring instead to remain airborn. Drake replied to the attack with an arrow that lodged itself in the beast's hindquarters. It bellowed in anger and cycled around, only to find he and Delphine standing alone in the glen, swords in hand. It roared its challenge, then dived.

Jakt waited a moment, then when it was within range, shouted in reply. Flames burst forth, bathing the descending beast in fiery breath. Remembering his training, he kept the breath short and loud, envisioning the target area. He could imagine, somewhere in the back of his mind, Arngeir's long, stern face, shaking his head. The thought made him angry.

The dragon, covered in painful burns and soot, its own weapon used against it, screeched with alarm and wavered in its plunge. Jakt took advantage of its confusion and spring clear of its way. As it passed over them, barely a yard above their heads, Delphine leapt up, swung her blade in an upwards arc. It bit deep into the beast's belly, but the beast's forward momentum smacked her down to earth with force that would have felled an orc. Somehow she landed on her feet, but her hands were empty, her blade stuck in the beast's thick hide as it circled upwards. A lightning bolt sizzled up from somewhere in the thicket, barely missing the beast, while another arrow struck home, this time in its left wing, before Sahloknir reached enough altitude to be out of range.

As if on cue, Lydia came sprinting out of the woods, shoved her bow and quiver into Delphine's hands, then drew her own sword and shield.

"Get back-"

"No time," the shield maiden replied curtly, turning to face him. Her eyes twinkled with excitement. "Besides, I couldn't even hit a barn from ten feet away."

Delphine shrugged, notched an arrow to the bow, then sprinted back into the relative safety of the tree cover. Sahloknir's roars were coming closer, and he looked upwards to see the beast's form swooping in for another attack.

Lysana's fireball impacted upon its wing, tearing a sizable hole in the leathery skin. The dragon lost control and slammed into the ground, practically on top of him. Jakt leapt to the side, trying to dodge the massive form, but he was too slow; its leathery wing, twisted in the fall, bowled him over. The stoneskin spell took the brunt of the force but it was still enough to send him sprawling onto his back, all his breath forcibly expunged from his lungs.

Gasping for air, sitting on his ass, he could only watch as Lydia charged forward and buried her sword in Sahloknir's wing, tearing a huge gash in the leathery canvas. The dragon roared in pain, righted itself, and shook its wing, sending the young nord woman staggering back. It bent its elbows and folded its wings under itself, pressing forward on all fours, ignoring two more arrows and another, smaller firebolt in the process. Lydia staggered upright just as its big scaly head opened its jaw and grabbed her around the midriff.

Jakt yelled and forced himself upright, only to be slapped back down by the worm's whiplike tail. He felt the rest of the stoneskin spell dissipate as he found himself, once again, sitting on his ass.

Luckily for Lydia, her own magical barrier held the beast's crushing jaw at bay; it tried in vain to bite her in half, gnawing awkwardly at her while she struggled, but, after another volley of arrows, settled instead for throwing her against one of the standing stones. She smacked against the rock, slid to the dirt, then stumbled forward onto all fours, her magical second skin curling off her body and floating up into the night. The dragon turned its head back towards her, opened its mouth to suck in air, then breathed its terrible breath.

Jakt realized with dread that it was not flame, but frost that poured forth, seemingly unending, from the cavernous mouth. He struggled onto his feet, and watched as Lydia, her hand outstretched, disappeared behind a cloud of ice.  
"NO!" There came a shout, and Jakt turned to see Drake, wild-eyed, running out from his hiding place into the glade. His bow hummed with fury as he sent arrow after arrow into the beast's nearest side. Half of them bounced off, unable to pierce the thick scales.

Sahloknir screeched and turned itself towards the imperial, who skidded to a stop as he realized the stupidity of this tactic.

Jakt stumbled forward, but his body was still playing catch up with his brain. _There's no way I'll make it.. _

_The thu'um isn't just a weapon, _said a voice in his head, _it is a language for communicating with the world around you._

He pointed his sword forward, closed his eyes, and whispered, envisioning himself rushing forth, propelled by nothing but the wind.

"_Wuld," _he breathed, but it was not a shout - it was a request, for the air to carry him forward, like an aberrant gust.

He felt calm as he rushed forward, the breeze cool on his face. He felt his sword impact upon something hard, resist for a moment and then pierce deep into something soft and spongy. He opened his eyes to find blood on his hands, his sword buried up into the hilt deep in the dragon's side, right in the soft, fleshy spot below where its wing sprouted from its torso.

The beast yowled in pain as he twisted the blade and ripped it free, showering himself in droplets of its blood. Its cry became a gargle and Jakt understood that he'd pierced a lung.

Right on cue another one of Lysana's lightning bolts impacted upon its side, arcing its way through his spine. It shivered and twisted, unable to cry out without coughing up blood. Jakt waited for the energy to dissipate across the beast's body before sinking his blade deep into the soft armpit once more.

Then he stepped back, out of range, as Sahloknir began its death throes. It tried to lift off, leapt upwards, but slammed back down with a sickening smack. Spurts of blood shot out its nostrils. Drake yelled as he sunk arrow after arrow into the beast's soft spots - its belly, its wings, its armpits, its eyes.

Finally, Sahloknir tipped over on its side. Its head arced upwards one last time, heaving, then thudded to the ground. The beast moved no more.

Almost immediately its flesh began to crackle with magical fire. Jakt closed his eyes and stepped forward, listening as fell winds swirled around them, letting the soul flit through the air and find his body. Then it was upon him, forcing itself into his mind -

_He was awake again, after so long, but something was wrong: earth all around him, the tyranny of the surface, trapping him, constricting him. Dirt everywhere, closing in as he clawed his way upwards. Cool air on his brow for the first time in a thousand years, with sweet salvation hovering over him, a horned form blacker than the night, the maker himself…_

He opened his eyes, feeling human once more, to find Delphine looking at him strangely. She had retrieved her sword, which hung loosely in one hand. Then she took its hilt with both hands, plunged the blade into the earth, and knelt.

"Dragonborn," she began, her eyes downcast, "I pledge my sword to your service. I will serve you until my last breath leaves my body."

Jakt hardly registered her words, so there was an awkward moment after she stopped speaking before he became aware that she wasn't saying anything anymore. He cleared his head, unsure of what she really meant, and unsure of what to do next.

"You may, uh, rise, Delphine."

She looked up at him, her lips twisting upwards into a thin smile, then glanced behind him. Jakt's heart sunk. Adrenaline, coupled with confusion and elation, had taken over, made him forget Lydia's plight. He whirled around without waiting for Delphine to stand and raced over to the outcrop where she lay. Lysana and Drake stood over her already.

The ground was frosty with snow and ice, a few inches thick. The dragon's breath covered a large area in a cone. A white magical ether wafted upwards from the frosted ground, and Jakt could feel a drastic drop in temperature as he came near. Lydia knelt in the center, her hand still outstretched. Her body was completely encased, like some sort of frozen mummy. Jakt could still make out her face, distorted by the thick layer of opaque ice. It was frozen in a look of pain and terror, blackened by the cold.

"Is she…"

Lysana met his gaze and shook her head, ever so slightly.

Jakt turned to Drake. His eyes bored down at her, his face unreadable. He barely noticed even when Delphine padded up next to them.

"Well, we can't leave her like this."

Drake nodded.

* * *

"It isn't exactly fair," said Drake, his tone glum. "She had the least stake in all of this. She was little more than a bloody butler with a shield_, _for Mephala's sake."

"Be careful whose name you take in vain, fool," Lysana replied curtly. Somewhere she was aware that she was lashing out for no good reason, other than to mask her own sense of guilt and foreboding. The Imperial seemed upset, true, but Lysana's cynical brain suspected that this was more due to the sudden lack of companionship in his bedroll.

Drake shot her a rude look in reply, but she avoided his eyes and looked to Jakt instead. His attention was focused on the campfire they had lit, after they had thawed Lydia out, buried her and built her cairn. The flames crackled warmly, but the heat seemed taunting and perverse to Lysana, in light of Lydia's particular demise. The poor boy was taking it pretty hard. Logically, she could understand why - they were both nords, and Jakt had repeatedly demonstrated his need to find his people, his kin. Even still, some small part of her felt disdain towards him - after all, they had _barely _known each other. Did blood really run that deep? She would have to continue speaking to Jakt about his desire for kinship. It was foolish, not to mention self-involved, and there were bigger obstacles more deserving of their attention.

"I'm sorry," Jakt spoke up at last."She was my housecarl. She gave her life protecting _me. _It was my fault."

"No, Jakt," Lysana began, burying the scornful little voice in the back of her mind. It would not do to lose the Dragonborn under the sway of guilt. She tried to sound empathetic, but empathy had never been one of her strong suits.

"If anything it was _my _fault. I should have cast spells against ice instead of fire-"

"That is horseshit," interrupted Delphine, speaking for the first time since their battle with the dragon. The three raised their heads in unison at her words.

"Lydia chose to fight of her own volition. She was strong and quick and brave, but strength and speed and courage do not always triumph when death beckons."

She stood and faced them, her face impassive. "Enough wallowing. Blame will not serve us. That battle was short. Our foe was sluggish, newly awakened. We will not face opponents with such a clear advantage in the future."

Lysana felt dread collecting in the pit of her stomach. Delphine was right: the dragon had been unprepared for them, and it had still cost them a capable warrior._ Imagine the havoc an army of them could wreak._

"We have a long journey tomorrow, and many answers to seek. Get some sleep."

Drake shook his head incredulously. "We've even less hope now than before! You saw what happened? Dragons bringing other dragons back to life? Who in Oblivion can _possibly _tell us anything?!"

Delphine's pale eyes glittered in the firelight.

"The Thalmor."

"The Aldmeri elves? Those gold-skinned, pretentious pricks? Not to mention _genocidal." _Drake paused for a moment, waiting for her to suggest otherwise. She did not.

"You honestly think you can just waltz up and ask for their _help?_ If they found out who Jakt was, they probably wouldn't even bother arresting him before ordering his execution! Then they'd string the rest of us up for _high_ _treason, _or something like that."

"Think about it for a second, though, Drake," Jakt began, sounding thoughtful. "Who benefits the most from keeping Skyrim in chaos?"

"You know, I can remember a time pretty recently when you were saying the same thing about Ulfric Stormcloak. Though I'd prefer to cozy up to his hairy ass than get shit on by an elf."

"It is good to see that the dragonborn has at least a modicum of sense. The Thalmor have significant resources at their disposal." Delphine's voice was curt and cutting. "And they have the will to use those resources, _no matter the consequences_, as long as they achieve their goals."

As she looked up at the older woman and listened to her speak of the Thalmor, a couple of half-baked thoughts - inconsistencies and tangents - began to arrange themselves, to click into place in Lysana's brain. Delphine's obsessive secrecy was more than simple paranoia: it bordered on psychotic. The title of the book she'd stolen from Delphine's safe house, the one that had disappeared from her pack before she'd had a chance to read it, flitted about in her head. _The Fall of the Blades._

"And besides, we aren't going to ask them for their help. If they knew who we really are, you're right, fool, they wouldn't hesitate. No, we're going to take it from them."

At that moment Lysana understood.

"You're a Blade."

Silence. Delphine cocked her head at her, then nodded. Jakt's mouth gaped. Drake looked confused.

"I thought the Blades were no more," she asked carefully, "Disbanded, after the war."

All of a sudden her face twisted with fury. "No," she snarled, baring her teeth. "_Massacred. _Hunted down and killed, systematically, without mercy." Her eyes burned brighter than the campfire, brighter than the twin moons. Lysana felt herself recoil slightly, on impulse.

"The Thalmor are not only a threat to Skyrim, but to all that live on Tamriel, Imperial or otherwise. They will not rest until everyone succumbs to their particular worldview, and have no problem culling those who will not cooperate. If they seem sated now, it is because they are planning their next move. There is plenty of reason that this might be it."

Then Delphine sighed, her anger abated. Lines creased her face, seemingly springing out of nowhere. Lysana saw her for what she was at that moment: a tired, middle-aged woman, struggling to remain inconspicuous, while the weight of a disastrous defeat and a hundred dead comrades loomed over her shoulders. Lysana felt a pang.

"But they didn't get all of you," Jakt murmured.

Delphine sighed again, and sat.

"No. Not all of us."

* * *

A/N: Poor Lydia :( I can tell I'm going to get sick of writing battles with dragons (just like I got sick of fighting them in-game). But the struggle goes on!


	6. A Failure of Diplomacy

_"Dragonborn…"_

_The thicket presses in on all sides, trapping him, snagging his limbs. Blackness surrounds him, except for straight ahead: a soft red glow, shining through the leaves and vines and thorns. He tries to push himself through, but the forest is hungry and dark, and for every step forward new growth shoots out to entangle him, and drag him backwards. He opens his mouth to shout, but no words come._

_"Dovahkin…"_

_He wrestles his arm free, feels around at his waist, and draws his sword; it gleams for a moment, pure and silver. The thicket retreats, creaking in dismay. He swings the blade in front of him, but when it makes contact with the darkness it shatters into a fine dust, leaving only the hilt intact. He lets it fall from his hand._

_There is an otherworldly wail, and he feels strong, vine-like tendrils wrap around him and pull him forward towards the dull red glow. He reaches the edge of the darkness, where it gives way to a red-lit glen; all of sudden it releases him with a flourish, sending him reeling to his knees. _

_"Jakt…_

_He looks up into the face of a Nord woman, bent over like a dog, one hand outstretched, not a yard away. Her mouth is open, her eyes wide and full of tears. She stares straight through him, pleading with something that is not quite him, but deep inside of his body, his soul. _

_"Help… Me…"_

_Her body shatters, like the sword, a million shards of ice that twinkle in the red light like diamonds scattered from a purse. A low grumble splits the air, followed by the whump-whump of heavy leather wings flapping. He looks up. _

_The horned beast, sheathed in shadow darker than the blackest night, stares down at him with glowing red eyes. It is framed by a blood red moon. It opens its mouth, sucks in its breath, and the flame comes pouring down…_

* * *

Jakt awoke with a start, gasping, springing up in his bed like the jaw of a well-coiled trap. Sweat soaked his torso. He looked over to see Lysana standing over him, her eyes wide, clearly uncertain about what to do.

"Are you alright?"

He broke eye contact and looked around the room. The pale light of early dawn trickled in through the window, revealing an otherwise empty space. The third bed in the room, furthest from the window, was empty.

He looked back to Lysana. "Uh, yes. Just a dream."

She sat at the foot of the bed. He became uncomfortably aware that all she had on was a simple cloth jerkin. It was loose around the neck and stopped short of her knees. So used to seeing her in her mage robes, which did a very effective job of obfuscating her gender, he was pleasantly surprised to find that her form was quite… womanly, to say the least.

"You were screaming," she pointed out, matter of factly. "It sounded more like a nightmare."

Jakt felt himself shivering and forced his body to relax. "It was nothing. Just nerves."

Lysana cocked her head. "It was Lydia again, right?"

He was silent for a moment. Then he nodded.

She sighed. "Look, Jakt, what happened wasn't your fault. She knew what she was getting in to when she agreed to follow you around. We all did."

"I know," he replied. "But I didn't expect anyone to die for me."

Lysana was silent again. Then, after a moment, she stood and walked towards the headboard. She gently took his hand, which he was using to prop himself up, and pulled it outwards, putting her other hand on his bare chest and softly but firmly pushing him back town.

"What are you-"

"Shush." Her reply was distinctly unsexy.

She lifted the covers and slid in beside him, worming her way close. The bed was quite small; unsure of what to do, he opened his left arm to welcome her, and she wriggled her way into his embrace so that her head rested on his shoulder. He tried to ignore the awkward lump that had begun to form between his legs. Her body was warm, however, and her skin soft against his. Her leg brushed ever so slightly against his stiffening manhood as it settled over his lower body. The cloth pants he wore proved a very inefficient shield against this manner of physical contact.

They lay there for a moment. Lysana closed her eyes. _Why is she doing this_?

She opened one eye, swiveled it onto his face, and smiled shyly. It made her look very young, girlish even. Her cheeks were flushed. She opened her mouth, a dark, perfect drop of red on pale, freckled skin. The back of his throat felt very dry all of a sudden.

"What do you want me to do?"

As if in response, he felt his manhood jerk upright, burying itself into her leg. She raised her eyebrows.

Jakt's mind whirled as he stammered to answer. Something about the situation felt so... insincere, almost manufactured. The cynical part of his mind managed to overpower his rational brain, which was bitterly engaged in a fight to the death with its horny cousin that dwelt down south.

"Is this a new tactic you're trying?"

"What do you mean?" Her grin, which had become unbearably sexy, began to falter.

"Well," he began hesitantly, "To start, I don't fully understand why you're so invested in following me around."

She looked at him searchingly, no longer smiling.

"This seems… calculated. Like you're trying to comfort me so I won't question any of this, or… I don't know, lose track of my purpose. Lysana, practically everything you _do_ feels calculated."

She looked away, cleared her throat, did not reply. Her face turned a deeper shade of red, clashing ever so lightly with her auburn hair. Then she spoke, frustration in her voice.

"You're just so… _young."_

"What? So are you."

She rolled her eyes. "Jakt, tell me, what do young people do together? _Especially_ when they're scared, or stressed?"

"What cause have you to be stressed? You hide it well."

"Do you know what they say about the coming of the Dragonborn? Have you heard the tales of the end of the world? Have you no idea what you're up against?"

His heart sank. "So what you're really saying is, you don't actually believe in me."

She huffed. "That's not what I-"

He pulled away from her, sat up again, anger suddenly rising in his stomach. "No, it's the truth."

She opened her mouth, her face twisted, prepared to retort. Then her face softened.

"Do _you _believe in yourself?"

The question caught him off guard, mostly because the cynical voice in the back of his head said, _no. _

There was silence. Lysana shook her head.

"It's not that I don't believe in you. That doesn't really matter."

"Stop trying to manipulate me, then," he replied, his voice cold.

"Jakt," she began, her voice just as cold as his, "You don't think that _maybe_ I slid into bed with you because you _aren't _the only one who could use some physical comfort right now?"

He opened his mouth and closed it without making a sound. He hadn't.

"No, of course you didn't. You are the Dragonborn, yes, and I'm sure it's a heavy burden to bear." She paused, her face changing to one of worry. "But, the Gods damn it all if this isn't hard for me too. And as someone who knows just a little bit about magic, what's been happening is _terrifying. _We could be talking about the end of time itself. Don't you understand that?"

He opened his mouth once more, finding again that he had nothing to say. She was finally opening up to him, but it was definitely not going the way he wanted it to.

She sighed slowly - a deep, disappointed breath - then started to shift out of the bed.

"Wait, no - it's alright. I… appreciate the gesture."

She raised an eyebrow, but stopped moving. Grasping at straws, he started to speak.

"It just feels… so huge. Much bigger than me. Watching that dragon come back to life - and then - well, Lydia…"

"It _is_ huge," she said matter-of-factly. His heart sank; he could practically feel her walls coming back up. "Much bigger than you, or me, for that matter. You need to get used to that. Now come on, we should get started. It's going to be a long day."

* * *

He stood on the corner of the cobbled street with the rest of the small crowd and watched the legionnaires as they marched. Nords, Imperials, occasional Bretons, even sometimes an Orc or a Redguard; their armor glinted in the morning sun as they filed through the streets of Solitude towards the city's front gate. They kept their plain, wide swords in their scabbards and their helmets, crested with horsehair dyed a deep red, tucked in the crooks of their arms. The thunking sound of heavy boots on stone, accompanied by the rattle of hardened leather and steel, echoed all around the walled city, as the soldiers marched from the Castle Dour and out through the front gates.

Where he expected bitterness, Jakt instead felt deeply sad. Twilight had fallen upon the Septim Dynasty, and their Empire was slowly crumbling. Even a show of force such as this - no doubt for the purpose of reminding Skyrim of its true protectors - rang hollow and desperate. If the tales were true, just forty years prior this demonstration would have paled in comparison to contemporary Imperial might.

Even still, he was a little relieved that his old Stormcloak gear had finally outlived its usefulness - a combination of wear, tear and rust had rendered the mail practically nonexistant. The green leather jerkin he wore now was far less conspicuous. Anonymity was essential in Skyrim's capital, in which Imperial allegiances - military, mercantile and otherwise - remained quite strong, and Jakt had no desire to find himself at the chopping block once more.

"Where are they going, papa?" asked a boy to Jakt's left, clinging to his father's arm.

"To fight the Stormcloaks, boy," answered the man. He was muscular and stooped, the unmistakable profile of a blacksmith.

"Why aren't they going to fight dragons?"

"They're just a story, to frighten little ones like yourself."

"But Svari said, her papa told her dragons are real, and that they live up in the mountains! She told me that she saw one flying high above the city!"

Jakt turned away, not wishing to hear the man try and explain the dragon crisis to his son. He came face to face with Drake. The Imperial was carrying a loaf of freshly-baked bread, no doubt pilfered from the open-aired market.

"Oh. There you are," he began, frowning. "You look a little tense, lad."

Jakt shrugged, trying not to look as perturbed about his good-morning conversation as he felt. "The last time I spent any meaningful time with the Empire, they were trying to executing me."

Drake's raised his eyebrows. He handed the bundle to Jakt, groped around for a moment before producing a cheese wedge wrapped in cloth from one of his many pockets, then pulled out his knife and began slicing cheese. Jakt tore a chunk off the loaf and handed it to the Imperial, receiving some sliced cheese in return. Drake tore into their impromptu breakfast with gusto.

Finally, between bites, he asked, "What was the crime?"

"Having bad luck, it seems."

Drake studied Jakt's face for a moment, chewing thoughtfully.

"No, there's something else. You've always been peachy keen when we've dealt with them before."

"It's nothing, don't-"

"Lysana?"

Jakt paused, locked eyes with the shorter man. He frowned.

"You make a move on her or something, you great lout?"

"Not exactly," he began, unsure of how to explain it, or even why Drake was suddenly so curious. "You could say the opposite, actually."

Drake chuckled. "About damn time."

"What does that mean?"

"Let me tell you something, Jakt," the Imperial said, shaking his head, "A curious thing starts to happen when men and women travel together for a long stretch. Especially men like _you _and women like _her."_

"Women like her? She's a mage, and she's a Breton. She dislikes nords, and I'm pretty sure she thinks my head's full of curdled milk."

"She may act like that," he replied, a roguish twinkle in his eye, "But in my storied experience, frosty bookish tarts like our dear friend Lysana are so damn repressed that they start to lose it whenever a stupid handsome brute such as yourself so much as looks their way for _any _significant period of time. And you should see the looks she gives you, when she thinks no one is looking."

Jakt couldn't tell if Drake was screwing around. Truth be told, there was never any telling with him, so Jakt usually assumed yes. He found the thief's words amusing, however: they made him feel a little better about he and Lysana's morning altercation.

"I think you're full of it," he said, cracking a smile. "What do you know about women anyway-"

He stopped suddenly at the flash of pain on Drake's face. He'd forgotten, momentarily, what had happened to the last woman Drake had been with. Perhaps they'd been closer than he thought.

"Quintus - I'm.. I'm sorry."

"It's alright, Jakt. She… she was a good lass."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Jakt turned to see the tail end of the legionnaire column as they marched off to war. Drake turned with him. The Imperial reached up and clapped his arm.

"I hope I'm not interrupting a tender moment."

They turned around to see Lysana standing there. Her yellow eyes glinted from underneath her hood. He looked at her for a long moment, tempted to discuss further what had happened that morning, but her face betrayed no such inclination. Instead he took a deep breath, pushing the strange morning to the back of his mind, concerns to be addressed at a later date.

"Right," Drake said. He gestured to the empty streets. The last of the soldiers were through the gates, and townspeople had started to disperse.

"Now that they've all gone, let's go commit an act of high treason."

* * *

"I've said it before and I'll say it again," he began irritably, "That woman is certifiable, and she's going to get us all killed."

The big lout shook his head. "I trust her. She's too paranoid and too thorough not to think all of this through."

"You know, the fact that I find that a convincing argument really says something about our current situation."

Drake sat beside Jakt in the musty warehouse. Lysana stood in the corner, her hood drawn low over her face. Drake remembered the first time they'd met: she had been standing like that in Farengar's study. After more than a month, he still found it unnecessarily theatrical of her.

Their contact was supposed to be here already, the Eight damn him, but it was already past noon. Why couldn't they just meet in the Winking Skeever, where they'd stayed the night before? As if on cue, though, the door creaked open, momentarily flooding the room with the midday sun. In crept a Wood Elf, short even for a Bosmer. His sharp features were twisted with worry.

"You must be Malborn," Lysana's voice was sharp, cutting through the musty air like a knife through warm butter. The wood elf jumped straight up in the air. Drake suppressed a laugh.

"Kyne's grace," he breathed, clutching his chest. "Yes, uh, that would be me. Delphine sent you?"

Jakt stood and nodded.

A tense moment passed. Malborn's gaze shifted nervously between the three of them. He had a large forehead, with spiky hair that sprung forth from a sharp widow's peak. His skin was the color of almonds, and his eyes had large, black pupils which quivered to and fro. Finally, he broke the silence.

"Well-"

"First off, I think what we all would like to know," Lysana interrupted immediately, "is why you agreed to do this in the first place."

"You don't seem very enthusiastic about helping us," Drake chimed in. He was enjoying watching the little elf squirm a little more than he ought to. Though he had no desire to admit it, he was becoming less and less sure of his purpose chasing after Delphine's mystical knowledge. Dragons were one thing, but the damned Thalmor were a little above his pay grade.

"If you'd seen half of what I've seen," Malborn replied, "You'd know how I feel. The Thalmor do not mess around."

"So they're scary," Drake offered wryly, "Never heard _that_ before. You aren't making a great case for yourself, elf."

The Bosmer looked at him in consternation. "I am afraid that they'll kill me," he started, "but they did far worse to my clan back in Valenwood." His voice lost a little bit of its quiver as he started to pick up speed.

"And Y'ffre forgive me if I want to see them pay, to help them suffer. Even if it means…" he trailed off.

"We'll protect you," Jakt offered. Drake resisted the urge to roll his eyes; for an ex-mercenary, the young fool could be awfully soft.

Malborn just shook his head wearily. "I appreciate it, but I doubt that you can. In any case, we'd better get started."

He paused and pulled out a rucksack. "I'll be able to sneak in some of your gear and get it to you once you've left the party. I would suggest something stealthy."

Jakt nodded. He produced a fine knee-length coat of mail, folded it up and stuffed it into Malborn's sack. Drake was satisfied to see that it did not bear the distinctive sky blue of the Stormcloaks; it seemed that the young Nord had learned the importance of masking that particular allegiance, especially here. Next, he reached down and hesitantly unbuckled his sword and belt, handing them over slowly. They barely fit in Malborn's bag, but the wood elf managed, somehow, to make the bag look inconspicuous.

Then it was Drake's turn. He'd changed out of his patchwork leather armor (which was badly in need of a wash) and removed the matching boots and bracers in anticipation of this transaction. He parted with them reluctantly; the armor was a little worn but still quite sturdy, perfectly suited to his particular lifestyle. It was a welcome reminder of a previous life. As he folded it together he noticed a familiar insignia which decorated one of the pauldrons; he'd done a poor job of rubbing it out, perhaps consciously. He did not like to chance losing it, but it just seemed ludicrous to attempt a burgling job without it. He decided against taking his sword - the Thalmor might take offense, seeing as it was one of their blades - instead opting for a long, straight steel dirk that he kept at his belt, as well as a curved knife that could fit inside his boot if necessary.

Malborn turned and offered the bag to Lysana, but she shook her head. One of the few good things about magic was that it allowed one to travel light. Drake could admit that much.

"Right," said the elf, when he had finished forcing all of their most treasured belongings into his sack, "Delphine arranged for a carriage to meet you at the mill outside of the city. It'll take you up to the embassy."

He pulled another leather rucksack from his back. "Inside you'll find disguises. Delphine collected them for me, from the Gods know where. And here is your invitation."

"Wait," Lysana started, frowning, as Jakt shouldered the bag, "Just one invitation?"

Malborn shrugged helplessly. "It was all I could get my hands on! I managed to put just the one name you provided on the guest list. Anything else would have looked unduly suspicious."

"What was the name?" Lysana's question was directed at the elf, but she locked eyes with Drake as she said it. Her face was very still, but he could see barely contained murder behind it.

"Er," Jakt broke in awkwardly, "Delphine and I decided that, ah, the best way to do this was to let Drake do his thing."

"Why wasn't I consulted?"

"Well," Jakt said, sounding apologetic, "We didn't think you'd like the role you'd have to play.."

"That's not technically true," Drake said, "Personally, I just wanted to see how you'd react."

"What's the role?" she spoke very softly, with deadly calm.

"My consort. And Jakt will be my bodyguard. Or what is it you Nords say? Housecarl?"

She was silent for a moment, her face betraying no emotion.

"It makes sense," Jakt was clearly feeling pretty guilty about this. "Drake's best suited to play the role of the party guest, not to mention he's had plenty of experience impersonating and conning people. And this way, I won't even have to talk. Just look imposing, and stupid."

"Which has never been very difficult for you," Drake said, airily. Jakt shot him a disgruntled look.

"And all you have to do, my dear," he continued, "Is look absolutely radiant, so that when I take you by the arm, everyone will be marveling at what a handsome couple we make, and _not_ on our skulking dragonborn, here."

Lysana was silent for another moment. Then she nodded slowly. "That does actually make sense."

Drake found himself quite disappointed with her measured and logical reaction.

"Alright then," Malborn said, his jitters evidently returned, "Are we done here? I need to get back to my post already, or this whole operation is forfeit."

* * *

Delphine's plan was pretty straightforward, or at least Jakt had thought so when she'd explained it to him. Infiltrate the party, cause a distraction, slip away and sneak through the embassy to the tower where they kept their logistical documents. Anything at all about the dragon crisis was a step in the right direction.

Now, however, as their carriage rolled towards the Thalmor embassy, he was beginning to feel very, very foolhardy. Off in the distance, the compound's spired keep, elegant and flowing in design, somehow managed to be both beautiful and sinister. The Thalmor might be a familiar enemy, but that did not make them any less fearful than the dragons. Their disguises seemed paper-thin at best; after all, how could three amateurs hope to hide from the cold, calculating monsters that had tracked down and systematically murdered half of the Blades?

Lysana's anxiety was plain, peeking through the makeup that had transformed her face. Dark eyeshadow and blush - tastefully applied - coupled with her freckled complexion - gave her an oddly exotic charm, and her red hair was combed so straight that it shone like gold in the afternoon sun. A fine green dress, made of satin, lined with fur and cut just a little lower and a little shorter than most, lent a sensual edge to her getup; a large gold torque at her throat rounded out her appearance. She looked more than beautiful and elegant enough to fit in with a wealthy, influential crowd, but her apparel also hinted that she had fought to achieve that status, that she had played games and climbed ladders using more than just charm.

Jakt wore a coat gilded with bronze. It was dark blue in color, lined with soft fur. It was the kind of thing a housecarl or a manservant might wear to a formal occasion: nice enough to blend in, not flashy enough to stand out. This suited him just fine, quite literally. Drake had made him comb his hair, however, and trim his beard, providing him with a fine Imperial mirror with which to do so. The experience was strange; he'd only had chance to see his reflection while bathing (which the Gods knew happened infrequently) and it was not something he thought about often. He had an idea of how he looked, but the sight of the man staring back at him, all trim and proper, was enough to make him laugh. One thing did bother him, however: the distinctive blue warpaint on his face - something his mother had always insisted on painting him with, and which he had maintained in turn after she had died - had all but faded away, leaving only a trace of a shadow. Drake had been bothering him to rub it off for the entirety of their travels together. Jakt had sighed and finally obliged him - it would only serve to make him stand out. Otherwise, he found the experience of cleaning himself up not altogether unpleasant. _Perhaps, _he had thought, _when this is done, I will make it more of a habit._

Drake, by comparison, was clad in all the trappings of royalty. He wore a dark red vest that fell to his knees, inlaid with the white, pure fur of baby horkers. Under the vest was a shirt made of some dark material that seemed to shimmer like twilight. A jet black, sequined cloak flowed behind him, while a simple silver circlet clamped into his hair completed the look. Jakt wondered briefly where Delphine had acquired such an ensemble, then decided he didn't want to know. It was fitting that Drake had dressed himself accordingly, however, for the man he was impersonating would most likely settle for nothing less. He sat in the back of the carriage, his nose buried in a book: a rare sight indeed. When prompted, he told Jakt that he was memorizing family trees and shouldn't be disturbed. Jakt watched the trees pass by for a moment as they made their winding way up to the Embassy. Then he looked back to watch the great arch of Solitude as it disappeared behind the trees. It was a marvel of craftsmanship, and Jakt was ashamed to say that he could hardly imagine his kin building something like it now; that kind of knowledge was lost to the ages.

His eyes turned to Lysana. She was biting her lip, a sure tell that something was on her mind. He slid over next to her on the carriage's wooden bench.

"Hey. You nervous?"

Her eyes snapped onto his.

"How could you tell?"

He smiled, in spite of himself. "You always bite your lip when something's bothering you."

She looked at him for a moment, then broke into her rare, shy smile. "We've been spending too much time together."

He raised his eyebrows. "That was a joke, right?"

Her smile faltered. "I… I don't know."

There was an uncomfortable silence. _Now was probably not the time for this conversation_, Jakt thought to himself, _but we might not be around to have it later. _

"Listen, about this morning-"

"I'm sorry about that," she said reproachfully, "I was a little harsh. Sometimes I forget the things that are important to other people, like Lydia's service was to you."

He must have looked put out by this, as her eyes widened as she tried to backtrack. "I'm sorry - she was more than just a housecarl to you? No, that's not what I-" She paused and shook her head. "Oh.. the Gods know I am bad at these… emotional quandaries."

"It's much easier to deflect them away with scorn or anger," Jakt said pointedly.

She frowned and did not reply.

"Why are you so closed up all the time?"

"Hmm," she said, sniffing, "The same could be said of yourself."

Jakt nodded, thinking. "That's true, I suppose, but you know a lot more about who I am than I do you. I'm the Dragonborn, as you keep reminding me: my life is much less private than it used to be."

"If you're asking what happened to me to make me who I am, then you're wasting your time," she replied, raising an eyebrow. "It would take far too long and it doesn't really matter. All that matters is what I - and you as well, of course - will make of it now, and what we will do in the future. That's what defines us, and how we will work together."

"All the same," Jakt countered, "I want to know. Not because it will help us if we get to know each other better, but because I'm interested, personally."

He tried to make it sound as vague and nonthreatening as possible. She thought for a moment, then sighed.

"Very well. But for every nugget of information I reveal, so too must you tell me something of yourself."

Jakt shook his head. "Why do I feel that every conversation with you ends up an exchange of goods? It need not be so… transactional, you know_."_

"Are you going to ask me something, or complain?"

"Fine," he said, feeling annoyed. "Why did you climb into bed with me this morning?"

"Because I wanted to," she replied, simply. Her shy smile returned. "I am a woman, after all, and you a man. Is it so complicated?"

Jakt's mouth must have been hanging open very wide, because she looked quizzical.

"What? You mean to say you haven't thought about it?"

"Well, no-"

"So you _have_," she said, an evil grin spreading over her face. "I thought as much. You are not a very subtle man, Jakt the Dragonborn."

"Well, you are a fickle woman," he replied in consternation. "Just all over the place."

"And you a fool," she said, conversationally. "I reserve the Gods-given right to change my mind about anything I desire."

"Fine. That may be true, but you should know that I don't usually approach coupling so… casually."

She raised an eyebrow. "No? And you call me fickle. What would the barmaid in the Bannered Mare have to say about that?"

Suddenly Jakt felt like an ass. "Well, see, that was different. I didn't actually-"

"Care for her?"

"Yes-" He stopped for a moment when he realized the implications of that admission. Lysana's raised both eyebrows expectantly.

"Sorry to interrupt this, lad and lass; it's really quite cute." Drake's face was no longer entombed in his book; he looked amused. "We're in sight of the gate; I suggest you really take a moment and bury yourselves in your roles. Especially you, my dear Lysana."

Jakt resisted the urge to wrap him in a bearhug for changing the subject.

"My dear Viscount," she said, adopting an air of snobbishness as she echoed his words, "Whilst I will dutifully play the role of your consort, I must remind you that it is not you who I shall be consorting with this night." She flicked her eyes onto Jakt and winked.

Speechless, he watched as they rolled to a stop, and a gloved hand extended from beneath the carriage to help her as she dismounted.

"What in Oblivion's gotten into her lately?" Drake chuckled quietly as he sidled to the back of the carriage. "Sure you didn't stick it to her good this morn?"

"No, I-"

"No time for chit-chat, my good Sven!" Drake said loudly to him, as he stepped down into the company of three armored guards. "Fetch the barrel, we mustn't keep our hosts waiting!"

Jakt blanked for a moment before remembering his cue.

"Of course, your Grace." He hopped down from the carriage, nodded to the guards, then swung around and shouldered the wooden keg that sat in the back with them.

"Colovia's finest, gentlemen," said Drake, smiling to the guards; he had Lysana on his arm, looking very much the part. "Brewed in a time of prosperity and aged thirty-two seasons. A gift for the Lady Elenwen, may the Eight smile on her."

Two of the guards exchanged looks. Jakt had forgotten how tall the High Elves grew; that, coupled with their exquisite gilded armor and pale golden skin, made them appear quite intimidating. He began to feel even worse about the operation, but focused on heaving the heavy, sloshing barrel towards the castle.

"This goes against protocol," said one, who looked to be the senior ranking officer. His eyes were dark and cold, and he spoke in clipped, prim sentences.

"But, my dear man, Lady Elenwen's taste for Colovian Brandy is infamous. A fine gift for an even finer lady. I shan't take no for an answer, and I am sure she will thank me for it."

One of the guards moved to support Jakt, but Drake waved him away cheerfully. "Sven can handle it, gentlemen!"

"Very well. If you would, please, through the front gate. The party is being held in the main hall; everywhere else in the keep is strictly off limits."

"What of the guest bedrooms?" Drake asked with a sly smile, slipping his arm around Lysana's waist. Jakt watched her face as she dutifully resisted rolling her eyes.

The Thalmor captain raised an eyebrow, but smiled equally as slyly. "I am sure exceptions might be negotiated." He cast a spare glance in Jakt's direction. "You may put the brandy with the other stock, in the kitchens. Enjoy the party."

Jakt followed them through the gate, bowed (somehow) when Drake dismissed him, and headed towards a side entrance that led to the kitchens. He pushed open the doors and slid inside. Several Bosmer and Khajiit busied themselves preparing liveries; the wait staff bustled to and fro while the cooks huddled over the many brick-iron stoves.

"Yes, sir, what is it?" he found himself looking down at a wood elf, a silver platter full of drinks in one hand.

"Colovian Brandy," he explained as he crouched down and placed the keg gingerly on the ground. As he stood again, he tried his best to look disgruntled and impatient, which was admittedly not very difficult. "A gift from his Grace the Viscount of Skingrad."

He paused. "I was told to look for a Malborn."

A strange look passed over the Bosmer's sharp face. It looked a lot like fear. "Haven't seen him," he mumbled, then scurried off before Jakt could say anything else.

"He's feeling ill," came a female voice to his side. It was a another Wood Elf, short and sharp like the rest of her kin, and quite beautiful as well. She had large, soft eyes and long brown hair that she kept pleated in two braids. She looked up at him expectantly, even defiantly.

"Ill?" Jakt could feel himself beginning to sweat. He resisted the urge to pant openly, and his hands felt very clammy all of a sudden.

"Yes," she continued, "The steward came to me mid-afternoon and told me that Malborn isn't feeling up to snuff, and that I'd be coordinating all refreshments instead. I'm Brelas."

He struggled to regain control. At best, their equipment was forfeit; at worst, the Thalmor had captured Malborn and made him talk, and the whole plan was shot. For a moment he considered telling her the truth of his presence, but he could not bring himself to trust this Brelas.

"Yes, well," he said, willing his voice not to waver, "See that the Ambassador is notified of its arrival. I have orders from the Viscount that it is not to be opened until the second half of the party."

Brelas shook her head. "Damn s'wits and their drink. Very well, I'll see that it gets relayed."

He was already moving before she finished, back through the service entrance and into the courtyard, nodding at the guards as he passed, businesslike, over the threshold.

The main hall, a massive room dimly lit by a combination of the setting sun through magnificent stained glass windows and several iron brasiers, was filled with guests, men and mer all dressed in their finest livery. Jakt paused for a moment to stare at the stained glass: the scenes depicted the elf god Auri-El, transforming from a knife-eared humanoid form into a golden scaled dragon. He found them more than a little disturbing, considering his purpose here. Not a particularly religious man - by neglect and happenstance, rather than by choice - he had nevertheless wondered why so many of the religious pantheons on Tamriel so heavily featured the dragon motif. The last few months, however, had helped him partially solved that riddle: dragons were powerful, terrifying, and seemed to relish ruling over man. _All things they have in common with the Thalmor. _

He shook his head and brought his gaze back down to eye level. To his surprise, he found himself face to face with Balgruuf the Greater, Jarl of Whiterun.

* * *

Lysana had been practicing her dazzling, vapid smile for most of the carriage ride, but she found it increasingly hard to perform for the motley cabal of Skyrim's wealthiest and most influential. She found herself constantly invaded by the prying eyes of the entitled; she knew it was crazy, but she couldn't help assuming their muffled whispers, soft laughter and drunken sighs were all aimed at her direction. She had an idea that men considered her attractive: it was, she found, either a convenience or a distraction, something to be utilized and never indulged. She was having difficulty, however, shaking off the thought of Jakt stammering his concern for her. It seemed that their desires for intimacy with one another were of a different sort. His was territory that she normally avoided: personal attachment of that nature was so often fleeting and always ended painfully. But his concern was...

Instead of thinking further about it, she drank - one, followed by another, then another, relishing the acidic bite and sweet aftertaste of the finest Alto wine as it helped her find the way to a blissful confidence.

Drake steered them across the floor with practiced grace. He sipped and snickered with the best of them, charming the women and the men with a sophisticated and at times roguish wit. Lysana found the display… impressive, to say the least. She felt very warm. Perhaps it was just the party and the drink, but he was, after all, a handsome, clever, well-spoken man, quite different from the young, foolish Nord who kept popping up awkwardly in her thoughts. And she had a pretty good idea that his trysts were brief and passionate, never involved, more along the lines of what she herself desired.

She stood and tried to look pretty and stupid, allowing herself to indulge this strange and fascinating attraction to Drake for the sake of their disguise, while he spent fifteen minutes hamming it up with a swarthy redguard who claimed to be a representative of the East Empire Trading Company. He left the man in tears of laughter, turned around and nearly caused an Imperial businesswoman to feint with a particularly bawdy story concerning an Orc, a troll, and two Bosmer.

"You're flushed," he said to her suddenly, smiling slyly. "First party with the big boys?"

"What? Oh. No, as a matter of fact. You seem to know what you're doing, though."

"I've a lot of experience at such functions. Attending to such matters." he smiled and winked.

"Wine and wealth," she quipped, gesturing with her hand and feeling a little lightheaded, "Your gluttony will be your undoing, you know."

"You forgot women," he teased, inclining his head ever so slightly, "The last and deadliest of my vices."

She giggled involuntarily - something she'd not done for ages. He smiled as he studied her for a moment.

"You know, a little color does you some good. As will a little more to drink."

Another glass of Alto wine appeared in her hand, as if conjured. She sighed softly and drank deep. It tasted sour and delicious. She looked up and he was very close.

"You'll find it makes it easier," he murmured huskily.

"Makes what easier?"

"Lying. Acting, rather." He took another step forward. She could make out the hair follicles on his neck, freshly shaven, perfectly tracing his exquisite jawline. "Pretending that you're someone else, in front of everyone." He paused for a moment, exhaled slowly.

"And it makes this easier as well." He reached up and took her chin in one hand, pulled her in and kissed her full on the lips.

Surprised, she made a girlish yip that melted away in an instant. His lips were soft, his breath sweet and hot with liquor. His tongue slipped into her mouth, curiously, gently, for just a moment. She found herself enjoying the kiss much more than she should have.

"Well well," came a high, prim voice. "Aren't you the bright spark in this forge, so to speak."

They broke apart to behold a particularly tall elf, a female with golden skin and bright red eyes. Her hair was so blonde it was nearly silver, slicked back high over to her head and falling nearly to her waist. She smiled, her thin mouth contorting into a sinister semicircle.

It was good that Drake spoke up then, because Lysana was unsure when she'd be capable of creating sound next. She surfaced just as the Altmer was introducing herself.

"I am Elenwen, the Ambassador representing the Aldmeri Dominion's interests here in Skyrim."

Elenwen towered over Lysana, dressed in a flowing black dress trimmed with gold. She was elegant and shapely, with wide eyes that pierced one's very soul, and a chill voice that seemed it might be as casual ordering executions as it would drinks. Lysana could not help but feel small next to her, and not just because of their obvious height difference.

"I am the Viscount of Skingrad, Quintus Hassildor," replied Drake, bending his head. Lysana followed suit. "And this is my lovely companion, the Mistress Amelie, of High Rock."

"Charmed," said the elf, not even batting an eyelash in Lysana's direction as she took Drake's outstretched hand.

"I know your uncle," she began, her gaze bright and unblinking, "I've met him on several occasions. A very private man, but shrewd and… formidable."

Drake laughed. "You have probably met him more often than I, Lady Ambassador. He is my great uncle, in fact. Great-great uncle, most likely."

"He's lived a long time, and governed a long time, dear Viscount. Magic is capable of incredible feats."

Drake nodded his agreement. Lysana wondered how easy it was for him to admit that.

"Indeed. Janus Hassildor." she mused, "You come from strong stock, Quintus. May I call you as such? While the rest of Cyrodiil hemmed and hawed in the face of our onslaught, he and Skingrad alone resisted. And now your province flourishes stronger than ever, freed as it is from Imperial mediocrity." She paused and inhaled deeply through her nostrils, then smiled as she exhaled.

"My uncle merely realized what the Thalmor have to offer, my Lady," Drake replied, "Once he had, if I may be so bold, won their respect."

"The peoples of Skyrim think us tyrants, Quintus. They are brutes, banging their swords and shouting to their heathen man-god just for the sake of making noise. But there is cunning here, well hidden amongst the foolish, and strength. Two things that the Dominion believes, when working in concert, are impossible to resist. Two things we must win over, in the case of your uncle, or stamp out, in the case of Titus Mede. In the interest of peace across Tamriel, you see."

Just then a serving girl, a Bosmer, appeared at her side. She held a silver platter with three glasses, a ruby-red liquid swirling inside.

"My lady," she began, her eyes lowered, "Courtesy of his Grace the Viscount of Skingrad."

"Ah, Quintus," she said, taking three glasses and handing one to him and to Lysana, then dismissing the serving girl with a wave. "You shouldn't have."

"My uncle's private stock," he said with a grin. "Shall we have a toast?"

"My dear?" Elenwen looked to Lysana for the first time. Her eyes bored into Lysana's brain, and she felt like all of her secrets, her hopes and fears, were laid bare before this terrifying woman.

"Very well," she said, raising her glass. "To the future. To the hegemony of the Dominion, and the sovereignty of Skingrad. May their partnership last an eon."

"Well said," said Elenwen, after she drained her glass. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

She glided off. Such was her presence that Lysana had not even noticed the two hooded elven wizards who accompanied her. Lysana felt some obscene pressure lifting from her torso, slowly but surely, as if she had been buried deep beneath the surface.

Drake let out a long, low whistle, apparently echoing her sentiments.

"You're very good," Lysana said, trying not to sound too admiring, but failing just a little.

"So are you," he replied, a grin reappearing on her face. He took a step closer. "Now, I believe-"

"We have a serious problem," came Jakt's voice, low and stressed. She turned around to look at him and felt a brief rush of elation, followed by a momentary pang of guilt. She drew away from Drake ever so slightly, but Jakt seemed too preoccupied to notice.

"I ran into Jarl Balgruuf. He recognized me."

She grabbed his hand. "You're sure?"

Jakt nodded once. "He told me he did not expect to see me here. I played dumb, told him I was the housecarl of the Viscount of Skingrad, and that we had never met." he swallowed nervously.

"Well, what did he say then?"

"He didn't say anything else really. He just nodded and apologized, then told me that the Viscount was a friend and that he'd like to speak to him when he got the chance. And he gave me this." He produced an envelope, shut with an unrecognizable wax seal.

"What is it?"

"I don't know," he said, frowning. "I'm sure as Oblivion not going to open it here." He gave the letter to Drake, who pocketed it.

"Shit," Drake said, no longer seeming so suave. Or perhaps Lysana was beginning to sober up. "Bloody shit. Should I talk to him?"

"Are you daft?" She replied frantically, "Think, Drake! Why do you think he's here? He's throwing in with the Empire and cozying up to the Thalmor. Imagine the feather in his cap if he handed over the Dragonborn to them, with definitive proof linking him to the Blades!"

"Shit," Drake said again. "Okay, then we need to act _now._ Where in Oblivion is Malborn?"

Jakt coughed uncomfortably. "There's another problem. He's nowhere to be found. I think… I think they got to him."

Lysana resisted the urge to grab him with both hands and shake him. Drake rattled off a very nasty string of epithets that were just barely audible.

"That stupid knife-ear had my damned stuff!"

"What are we going to do?"

"I can help you," came a fierce, low voice. Lysana whirled around for what felt like the hundredth time in a half hour. It was the Bosmer serving girl.

"Brelas," Jakt breathed. "What? Are you sure?"

She nodded. "Malborn.. he told me, warned me about what was going to happen, and that he would most likely not survive the evening. I told him I would help him, swore on the trees."

'Why should we trust you?" Lysana tried to make her voice as low and imposing as possible.

"Malborn and I… we're cousins." she swallowed. "If you knew… what they did to our family… well, you'd understand."

"I understand."

She turned back to Jakt. His face was as solemn as stone.

She pointed to a doorway in the back of the room. Two Thalmor stood guard, dressed in ceremonial golden armor, trying not to appear too envious of the revelry around them. "That leads to the residences. You'll find a door that opens up into the east courtyard. The tower is just a straight shot from there."

"We're going to need a distraction," Jakt said, frowning.

"I'll do it," The Bosmer called Brelas said without hesitation, "There's a Nord noble who's been accosting me all night. He'll be quite drunk by now, and if there's anything these fetchers love, it's the spectacle of a grown man humiliating himself on behalf of a woman."

She marched off before the others could say a word. Jakt turned to Lysana and Drake, panting softly. His eyes were wide.

"Well, we're committed now."

"We have been from the start," Lysana said. She wished she felt as solid and sure as she sounded. "Drake, you need to stay here. If you disappear it will look too conspicuous."

Suddenly there was a crash, and a yell. Lysana looked over to see a crowd forming in a circle around a pair of people. One was Brelas, who had drawn back, spilling her tray in the process. The other, a large Nord, was gesturing drunkenly and shouting.

"This damned harlot tried to - tried to pickpocket me! Elenwen! Ondolemar! I want her damned head mounted on my mantle!"

Lysana looked back over to see the guards marching in the direction of the disturbance. She grabbed Jakt and marched him in that direction, not looking back as Drake joined the gathering crowd.

"I don't have a blade," Jakt whispered fiercely, "What if we run into trouble?"

"You're the damned Dragonborn," she replied disparagingly as they ducked into the long corridor that led to the courtyard, "All you have to do is yell at it."

As if on cue, two Thalmor stepped out from a side passageway. Lysana's spirits sank as she recognized that one wore the telltale hooded robe of a wizard. The other drew his mace and held it forward, a beautiful golden rod inlaid with four curved blades that arced out from one end.

"What are you doing here?" asked the wizard, sneering. "Guests are not to leave the main hall."

Lysana threw herself onto Jakt's arm, giggling. "Forgive us," she said playfully, "We were looking for somewhere a little more… private."

She looked up at Jakt's face, batting her eyelashes. He smiled down at her, adopted an air of swagger, and turned back to the guards.

"You understand, fellows," he started conversationally, slipping his arm around her waist. _He can play the part, at least_. "Now, might we inquire about a spare bed, perhaps?"

The guards exchanged looks. The armored one lowered his mace, but the wizard shook his head.

"I'm afraid we can't take chances tonight, lady and sir," the wizard said, "Now if you wouldn't mind coming with us-"

"_Fuuus - RO!"_

Jakt's shout caught both of them completely off guard, sending them tumbling backward. He pounced forward, recovering the dropped mace, and ran to engage. Lysana whispered under her breath, bringing up a minor warding spell with her left hand while she charged a firebolt with her right. She turned away as she heard Jakt and the armored guard clang together, focusing on the wizard, sending a bolt of flame - small enough to avoid torching Jakt but large enough to cause deadly pain - slinging into his robes. At the last moment he caught the blast with a ward of his own. She cursed silently as she watched it dissipate across the barrier that had erupted from his outstretched hand.

The wizard was upright now, his face twisted in concentration, as he slung a flurry of spells her direction. She deflected them in turn, muttering incantations that countered the burning, then freezing, then shocking magic. The wizard was quick on the offensive; like the few Thalmor High Elves she had studied with, he obviously valued the school of destruction over all else. She cloaked herself in an ironskin sheathe as she absorbed his latest lightning bolt, feeling her ward cracking under the strain of his medley of dangerous invocations. Her hair standing on end from the bolt's residual static, she dropped the broken ward, letting her magical stamina recover as she readied her next spell. Her ironskin absorbed the brunt of his next missile, a particularly deadly spike of ice, but she still felt the impact like a punch to the gut. Resisting the urge to swoon, she instead concentrated on her next spell, noticing Jakt locked in a deadly struggle with the other guard out of the corner of her eye.

She nearly doubled over when he sent a particularly explosive fireball careening into her, all but destroying her frayed second skin. The pain, a thousand tiny burns, caused her vision to swim in and out. Somehow she managed to hold on to the incantation, mouthing it wordlessly. As the smoke and fire cleared she became aware that the wizard was laughing spitefully. She gritted her teeth and released her spell.

A purple tear in the fabric of reality opened right behind him, and she felt satisfaction as she heard the elf's laughter dwindle. Through the widening tear stepped a naked woman's form, resplendently horned and cloaked in flame, poised like a dancer and floating above the ground. The apparition, a deadly and beautiful fire elemental, let out a crackling hiss and lunged forward at the wizard. He screamed and pushed himself backward, sending a deadly barrage of energy its way. The elemental cooed softly as it absorbed the energy, then spewed forth a jet of flame that he barely managed to block.

Lysana paused to catch her breath, then charged a deadly bolt with both of her hands. She watched the wizard fend off the elemental's flame, somehow steadying himself in the process. She waited as he deflected each burst, finally sending the elemental back to its home plane with a masterfully executed banishment spell. When he turned back to her - their eyes locking together - she released her lightning, just as he was raising his hands to hurl a projectile of his own.

The bright-blue bolt arced through the air to strike him right between he eyes. All of a sudden his body went haywire as the electricity fried his nervous system. He danced a frantic, macabre jig as his body lit up with lightning, then collapsed to the floor. Lysana let herself breathe, finally, doubling over with her hands on her knees. She turned to see Jakt, kneeling over the other Thalmor, rustling with his armor.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

He grunted as he pulled the guard's breastplate off, then took off his own coat. "You're smart, you can figure it out," came his snide reply. He began sliding the coat of red mail that had underlaid the plate from the dead guard. When she padded over she could see a conspicuous dent in the Thalmor's helmet.

"This is not going to work," she chided him. "We're both too short."

"Then we won't let them get close enough to tell," he panted as he stood and pulled on the mail. She shook her head, but helped him buckle the straps, then turned away while he fastened the elf's bracers to his arms. Walking over to the dead wizard, she quickly pulled off his robe, which was pretty easy considering it was just one garment. She slipped it over her dress, frowning at its size. _I must cut a comical figure_, she thought, as the sleeves descended past her hands and the robe dragged behind her. The hood dropped very low over her eyes and completely neutered her peripheral vision. _Very poor attire for fighting heretics, indeed_.

She turned back to Jakt; he was mopping the blood off the fallen guard's helmet as best he could with his discarded coat, an unpleasant grimace on his face. Once he had finished, she helped him quickly stow the bodies in the room they had emerged from, an office of some kind which luckily contained a closet space.

The nasty business left a poor taste in her mouth. Lysana found the of killing men and mer ghastly, only necessary as a last resort, and never relished it. It relieved her that Jakt seemed to feel the same. Although a mercenary by trade, evidently he had managed to hold on to a shred of his humanity, which impressed her, especially considering Skyrim's harsh climate. Nevertheless, she could foresee much more of it in the times to come, and prepared to harden her heart.

Trundled up like a pair of Thalmor, the two padded into the courtyard. The sun had dipped below the horizon, its last fleeting vestiges clawing at the encroaching darkness. They waved nonchalantly to a guard standing on the ramparts, who waved back. She tried to look taller as they walked slowly and surreptitiously to the tower, which stood ominously in the corner of the courtyard. It was made of some dark stone, the tallest structure around, spired in that exotic Elven manner with jet-black shingles and pierced with stained glass windows. Inside apparently contained Elenwen's solar, according to Malborn, which hopefully held the information they needed.

No one guarded the entrance (why would they? No one from the party was allowed in the courtyard anyway!) so infiltrating the tower was simply a means of casting a lockbreaking charm and stepping inside. Standing in the entrance hall they could muffled hear voices echoing from somewhere within the main chamber; Jakt grabbed her and smushed her against the wall beside him, holding a hand to his lips. She resisted the urge to shove him away, instead muttering under her breath an incantation that would temporarily grant them better hearing.

"You'll get the rest of your money when we confirm his story," a high, cold voice was saying, "As agreed."

"So he has talked!" came the reply - a man, from the sound of his voice, "I knew it!"

"Everyone talks, in the end." There was some shuffling as both of the participants evidently stood.

"Unfortunately, something more pressing has come up, and Master Rarnis will have to wait for our… complete attention. Now, I have work to resume. Leave me to it, if you ever want to see the rest of your payment."

Footsteps sounded from within the solar, magically magnified like booming beats of a massive drum. There was a creak as a door opened, and one pair thunked down what sounded like a flight of wooden stairs.

Lysana looked back to Jakt, widening her eyes: from the sound of it, the other pair of footsteps was headed in their direction. Jakt grit his teeth and unhooked the mace from his belt. As the man rounded the corner the young Nord struck out, catching him behind the head with the pommel of the weapon. The man - a middle-aged Nord by the looks of him, shabbily dressed - crumpled, his eyes dancing wildly as he fell. The clunk sounded loud and harsh in her ears - she'd forgotten to release her enhanced auditory spell - and left a high ringing note that took several seconds to dissipate.

"Sorry about that," she apologized to Jakt after dropping the spell. He was rubbing his forehead, his eyes screwed shut, his mouth working frantically but not making any sound.

"Shor's bones, that hurt!"

"Who is he?" she asked, after they had both recovered.

"Dunno," he mumbled his reply as he leaned over to search the man. "From the smell of him, I'd guess he crawled out of a sewer, or something."

They crept into the solar, which amounted to little more than an office. A quick survey revealed nothing particularly noteworthy; luckily, Lysana knew a little elvish, and gave the desk and bookshelves a quick dressing down. Nothing about dragons. She was rapidly coming to the conclusion that they would have to follow the second mysterious voice downstairs, a prospect she was not relishing.

She turned round to find Jakt waiting expectantly by the stairs.

"Oh, damn it," she said, "I guess we have no choice."

"Just stay behind me," he said firmly.

"I can take care of myself, Jakt."

"I know that," he seemed even more perturbed than she. "I just don't want you… that is, what's in that basement… you don't want to see this."

She sighed. "I don't have a choice. And neither do you."

He shook his head. "This probably isn't the right time for this conversation-"

"I know it isn't," she interrupted, smiling despite herself. "But I understand."

Perhaps it was the drink sloshing around in Lysana's bloodstream, unwilling to relinquish its hold on her just yet, or maybe the adrenaline from their earlier scuffle hadn't quite worn off. She skipped forward, then stood on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. Somehow she managed to find a patch of skin that wasn't covered by his helmet. He smelled like sweat, but not unpleasant, like the smell of hard, physical work done thoroughly. She withdrew and looked him in the eyes; his mouth gaped for a moment and he seemed quite surprised.

"You're sweet to try and protect me. It's…" she faltered for a moment. "It's not something I'm used to. Now come on, lead the way. Let's get this over with."

The door was locked; they took the stairs slowly and methodically. Lysana cast a muffling spell on Jakt, restricting his armor from clanking too loudly, while she padded softly after him.

She found herself on a balcony, overlooking a wooden room sparsely decorated, compared to the rest of the keep. The first thing she became aware of was the smell. The stench of human waste, solid and liquid, mixed with the iron sting of blood and the miasma of vomit, assaulted her nostrils. It was the indisputable reek of death and suffering, as epitomized by the products of the human body, impossible to completely eradicate no matter how thoroughly it was cleaned. Several cells occupied one end of the room, mostly empty; a motley collection of sinister apparatuses decorated the other peripheral space. Lysana recognized them as torture implements, and avoided looking further for the sake of her churning stomach.

She and Jakt creeped over to the edge of the wooden balcony to behold a grisly scene in the center of the room. Two Thalmor guards stood, holding a huddled, broken form in between them by either arm, while a third, hooded High Elf stalked back and forth. In his right hand he held a long metal candlestick; his left hand contained a magically lit flame, with which he was using at that moment to heat the makeshift club.

Lysana tried to look past the bruises, burns, and blood to ascertain the identity of the form that cowered between the two guards, one male, one female. He was a male stripped to the waist, his face so disfigured and swollen as to make him ears were pointed, however, and as soon as the hooded torturer spoke, she realized with a sinking feeling who she was looking at.

"For the last time," the hooded Elf spoke, his voice soft, almost soothing. "Who did you let into the castle? Where did you get those objects?"

He gestured to a collection of articles that lay, perfectly sorted, on top of a nearby desk. She recognized Jakt's sword, with its distinctive pommel, and Drake's leather armor. Her heart plummeted even further into the black depths of her stomach. It was Malborn.

"C-c-can't-"

"Can't what?" the hooded Thalmor continued, slowly, gently. "I can make it stop, boy. Only I can give you the Oblivion you so desperately crave, that you deserve so much. Help me, and I'll help you."

Lysana drew back to address Jakt, who had no doubt figured out what was going on by this point. She was dismayed to find him no longer beside her. Then there was a crash from below, followed by a furious roar.

He had vaulted over the balcony and landed below. She watched as the armored Elves dropped their victim and scrambled for their weapons. She watched him throw the elven mace end-over-end into the stomach of the hooded torturer, who screamed and doubled over as its sharp blades buried themselves deep in his chest. She watched as he stalked over to the table, retrieved his sword and unsheathed it with a flourish, then shouted himself forward into one of the armored guards, sending her reeling backwards and crashing to the floor. She watched as he tore the other guard apart, a series of unstoppable, meticulous slashes that left the High Elf quivering his last moments on the wooden floor as his blood pooled from half a dozen open wounds. By the time she had made it down the stairs he had finished off the other guard as well, forcing her own curved blade aside and decapitating her with a single stroke.

She hurried over to the downed victim and huddled over him, cradling his head, ignoring the frantic gurgling of the prone hooded Thalmor torturer as he tried to pull the mace out of his chest. She tried in vain to drown out his cries as he saw Jakt clunk up to him, closing her eyes and exhaling deeply as they were suddenly silenced.

"W-water," croaked Malborn, his swollen, purple tongue wriggling like a maggot in his bloody, toothless mouth. All of a sudden Lysana became aware of Jakt kneeling beside her, his helmet off, a canteen in his right hand. He gently poured water into the Bosmer's mouth. She watched his face as he did it, struck by his compassion, so recently preceded by cold fury. He did not look at her.

"Didn't… talk," Malborn croaked after he had finished, his breath coming out in wheezes. "Brelas…"

His eyes rolled upward into his head, and he slumped backwards. Jakt stood, towering over them. Lysana let his body settle onto the floor, her arms beginning to shiver. She stood next to Jakt, grabbed his arm and buried her face in his shoulder, trying to hold back the sobs that were rattling around in her body, clamoring to be let out. He was panting heavily, his chest rising and falling erratically. She looked up into his face: it was shockingly white, and tears flowed down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," she said, swallowing her own pain and nausea as best she could. "I'm so sorry."

She buried her head in between his arm and his chest, feeling the cold kiss of his plate armor on her cheek. He wrapped his arms around her, and she felt his breathing slowly stabilize.

"They took my mother," he said, calmly, his voice wet and shaken. She could feel the words deep in his lungs before they evaporated out of his mouth. "Plucked her off the street. Said it was for - for consorting with a heretic. _Eight years_ after the fact. I.. I never saw her again."

Lysana didn't know what to say. "Jakt…"

"They're _evil_, Lysana. This world is full of shades of grey, I get it, but the Thalmor - they're - they're pitch black."

She remained silent, reaching a hand up and stroking awkwardly at his hair. After a moment he released her, wiping the tears from his face and stalking towards the desk and the bookshelf.

"Come on, let's get what we're here for."

All of sudden there was a muffled groan that came from one of the cells. Lysana whirled around.

"What was that?" Jakt asked sharply, all traces of weakness or uncertainty vanished from his voice.

"I'm on it," she replied, "Grab anything you can find. And Drake will probably want his armor back."

Jakt grunted in annoyance and set about collecting the articles on the desk while she pattered over to the cell in question. Inside was a man, chained up to the wall. From his slight build, pale skin, dark hair and round features she guessed he was of Breton descent. He was a little less damaged that Malborn had been - probably because his captors were a little less pressed for time - but his body was still pockmarked with bruises and cuts.

"Who - who are you?" he asked bleakly. Several of his teeth were missing and his tongue was swollen, which made understanding him a little difficult.

"Not the Thalmor," she replied as she waved the door open. "What about yourself?"

"Thank the Eight," the man breathed, "I can't - I can't stay a minute longer. I'm Ettiene Rarnis. Are you with the Guild?"

Jakt strode over and joined the two; evidently he'd found the key to the man's restraints, for he set about unlocking the man. Over his shoulder he had slung the knapsack that Malborn had used to collect their contraband earlier that day, although now it seemed like a lifetime ago.

"Guild?" he asked, confused. "What guild?"

"The Thieves Guild-" he began, rubbing the circulation back into his wrists. His worried voice rose an octave. "Oh Gods - you definitely aren't-"

"Calm yourself," Jakt replied, soothingly. "No, we aren't with the Guild. But we aren't enemies of theirs, either."

"What interest does the Thalmor have in the Thieves Guild?" Lysana interjected. She was puzzled by this development. The Guild, once legendary, was little more than a nuisance now. Nords had even less patience for roguish types than they had for magic users, it seemed, and rumor had it the Guild had been reduced to a mere shadow of its formal glory: forced to skulk somewhere in the Ratway, the network of sewer tunnels that laid beneath the city of Riften.

"Not the guild itself," Rarnis panted as Jakt helped him upright, "They're after a man they think the Guild is harboring. That Elvish bastard kept using the name Esbern."

"Lysana," Jakt said quietly, "One of the dossiers I grabbed - it's labeled Esbern."

"What else did you grab?"

"There was one about Delphine, one about me, or rather, the Dragonborn, the one about Esbern, and..." he paused for a moment before continuing. "There was one about Ulfric Stormcloak as well."

She resisted the urge to lash out in annoyance. Damned Nords and their damned Ulfric Stormcloak. "Nothing about dragons?"

Jakt shook his head. "That's all I could find."

"Is there a way out of the keep from here?" Lysana turned back to Rarnis, her mental gears churning. "They must have somewhere they drag the bodies."

"Aye," said the man, forcing himself upright. She was surprised that he was capable of standing. "Follow me."

He led them to a trapdoor. Jakt had the key to it as well; he pried it open, and the air that wafted upwards smelled cold and fresh. A ladder descended into the darkness.

"This leads outside the castle, I think. They take the bodies down there when they're... finished." he shuddered. "While I was imprisoned I could feel the wind whistling up through it sometimes."

"Are you well enough to travel?"

Rarnis nodded shakily. Jakt turned to Lysana, his face twisted in concern.

"What about Drake? And Brelas, for that matter?"

She sighed. "He's clever enough to talk himself out of here, and he knows the rendezvous. We can wait for him there. As for Brelas-"

All of a sudden footsteps and muffled voices sounded from upstairs, along with the unmistakable clank of armor. Jakt's eyes widened. He unslung the pack, offered it to Lysana along with the key to the trapdoor, then shouldered the weakly-protesting Rarnis and shuffled down the steps as quickly as he could. Lysana chucked the pack down and followed soon after. She shut the trapdoor behind her, locked it, and then threw the key somewhere in the darkness.

The tunnel to the surface was not long. As night had long since fallen, Lysana followed the telltale rush of fresh air towards the exit. The cave itself had smooth walls, most likely carved by springwater long ago over many seasons. At one point they walked through a large patch of loose dirt that stunk of rot and decay; Lysana did not let herself dwell on what might be buried there, instead pushing them frantically towards the cool night air. She did not know how much time the locked trapdoor would buy them.

All of a sudden they burst forth into the night. The stars, tiny pinpricks of light descending the sky, greeted her like old friends, and she staggered for a moment, reveling in this newfound freedom. She wondered for a moment if she was developing claustrophobia, because nothing felt so good as to be free of that tunnel.

"Put me down!" Rarnis yelled, his weakened voice swelling with triumph. Jakt obliged him, and the Breton sank to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably. Lysana turned around to look at the Thalmor Embassy, satisfied to see that the tunnel had put quite a bit of distance between it and them. It looked peaceful, well lit, even inviting. She shuddered and turned back around, relieved to see the winding road back towards Solitude not too far off in the distance, cutting across the gently sloping hill that stretched out before her. Rarnis had gotten up and was hobbling downhill towards the road, laughing; Jakt followed after him, shaking his head in what looked like mirth. Lysana felt giddy; they had survived their suicidal mission.

She broke into a jog, running after them as best she could with the heavy rucksack slung over her shoulders, with the oversized Thalmor robe trying its best to impede her. When she had nearly reached the road, however, she became aware of a large press of bodies before her, opening up and surrounding Jakt and Rarnis. Some carried torchlight, and she thought she could make out the telltale skirted armor of the Imperial Legion. She tried to skid to a halt, but her robe finally defeated her feet in their desperate attempt to keep up with her elated rush downhill. All of a sudden the ground rushed up to her face; she pushed outwards desperately, feeling one of her arms buckle and strain from the impact. Her momentum, aided by the heavy rucksack on her back, swung her feet perpendicular to the slope and she felt herself rolling downhill for a moment, then her body smashed against a smooth boulder, whipping her temple to impact against the cool stone.

Her vision exploded with color as her head erupted in pain. Her ears rang like church bells, violated with waves of incessant clanging. She blacked out for a moment. Then she heard voices; one of them sounded like Rarnis, and was saying words that sounded like "kidnapped" and "impersonate" and "treason" and "Thalmor." The other voice was probably Jakt, and he seemed to be very angry, cursing and spitting, and then a chorus of voices joined his, and there was the sounds of a struggle as the chorus tried to subdue the good voice, the Jakt voice.

Then there was muffled silence, and Lysana thought she heard footsteps coming towards her, and then there was nothing but blackness.

* * *

A/N: Hope this chapter wasn't too soapy... I've been neglecting character arcs for plot a little bit, so I may have played catch up in this chapter. Act one should be ending soon! Thanks for all the follows and favs!


	7. The City of Greed

Jakt spent the first night cooped up in the Castle Dour dungeon on his feet, pacing. This was no mean feat, as his cell was so small he could barely stretch both arms out. After a fitful few hours of comatose sleep, punctuated only by the rattle of porcelain wordlessly shoved through the solid wooden door's slot, he let himself relax a little.

It was a strange sensation: for the first time in a long time fate had conspired to keep Jakt stuck in one place. Urgent responsibilities and other pressing matters remained, but felt far away and devoid of threat, hovering lazily like wasps that only attack when provoked. It gave him time to reflect on the past months, how inane everything had become – or perhaps it always had been inane, and he had spent the whole of his life before Skyrim in a trance. It seemed to Jakt that fate had taken away whatever agency he though he had and instead forced him down the narrow corridor of destiny.

He had spent much of his life wandering, first with the companies in Cyrodil and the Black Marsh, then the Fighter's guild, and finally on his own, to Skyrim. Always he had been content to board wherever he could find a bed, never allowing any shackles to slither around his ankles and tether him. Mercenaries make poor friends, after all, and the kind of women they usually attract make even poorer wives. Once upon a time, he felt liberated, freed, by this lack of responsibility. Now, having narrowly escaped the fury of the Aldmeri Dominion only to plop firmly into the bloated clutches of Old Man Septim, he longed for safety, for a sense of comfort and security that he hadn't felt since his mother had disappeared.

But some higher power had deigned Jakt of interest, and now his actions had consequences. Lydia and Malborn, and most likely Brelas now too: well-intentioned people caught up in his wake and swept away while still he clung on. His thoughts turned to Lysana: as the Imperial company led him back up the cobbled road to Solitude he'd caught glimpses of her, unmoving, slung over some Imperial's shoulder. His frustrated attempts to ask after her were met with silence or antagonism by his captors. And Drake… who knew what had happened to the thief.

Jakt spent the next day wracking his brains, trying to come up with a plan for escape. He'd spent time in a cell before, in his old life: drunken brawls, mostly, or misunderstandings with local militia related to mercenary work. The Guild usually bailed him out of these minor offenses, once he had proved himself an asset, of course. He doubted that Delphine would risk the exposure required for such a procedure, however; he was on his own this time. He remembered Drake explaining to him why it was a good idea to keep at least one lockpick hidden on yourself at any given time, but Jakt had little skill in such pursuits. His large, callused hands, although quick, lacked the fine-tuned dexterity necessary for use with small tools.

He cursed himself for not learning words such as "open" or "door" or "lock" in the dragon tongue, and for his use of the Thu'um so far: as a weapon first, a tool second. Then again, he reminded himself, dragons didn't really have the same problems with doors and locks as did Men and Mer. He decided against blowing down the door with the Voice, or setting it aflame, because of the sheer mess it would cause. The guards would come running, and the thought of locating and rescuing Lysana while fighting off the Legion unarmed soured his stomach.

Eventually he concluded that they would have to interrogate him at some point. And he was right.

On the third day, he heard a sharp rap on the door.

"Stand back, prisoner," came a crisp, commanding voice, "I am not alone. Comply or you will be subdued."

The door opened to reveal an Imperial in strange armor, flanked by three standard guardsmen with clubs. Their leader's cuirass was the standard skirted steel and leather, but painted a dark grey hue; his chestplate and shoulder pauldrons were adorned with the Imperial dragon symbol, inside of which was painted a simple bronze eye. The man was as tall as Jakt and looked to be the same age. He had small grey eyes, a full head of dark curly hair and a shiny black goatee. He stared at Jakt for a moment, his face a wooden mask, before beckoning him forward. Jakt stepped out of the cell. He produced a pair of iron shackles.

"Hold out your hands," commanded the man in the strange armor.

"Is this really necessary? I'm not going to try anything stupid." Jakt said, using his voice for the first time in days. It sounded rusty.

"That wasn't a question," replied the man with a smirk. One of the guards took a threatening step forward, raising his club. Jakt shrugged, held out his arms, and let the man shackle him.

Once it was done, the man spun without a word and began walking down the corridor. Jakt faltered for a moment, but one of the men prodded him forward with his club. They fell into step behind him.

The corridor led past several more cells, most of their doors open and their walls empty. At the end there was a slightly larger room with a menacing iron door. The Imperial led their small company into the room; it was sparsely decorated with a table and a few chairs, well lit by torches in wall skonces but completely windowless. The room was well cleaned, but freshly scrubbed walls and floors could not mask its sinister air; whatever happened in here, there must have been some great effort to conceal it. It made Jakt very uneasy.

The guardsmen stopped before the doorway and motioned Jakt inside. He followed their leader and took a seat across from him at the table, slumping low in his chair. The man had impeccable posture, most likely resulting from a lifelong career in the Legion.

A moment of silence passed between the two. Jakt could only imagine the figure he must cut in this strange man's eyes: battered and bruised, speckled in the dried blood of others, and dressed in rags. If he was surprised or curious, however, he did not show it, instead producing a small leather-bound book, opening it, and making a few quick notes.

"Witnesses at the Madam Ambassador's evening party gave your name as Sven," he began slowly, "bodyguard and steward to the Viscount of Skingrad."

He paused and looked up, looking bored.

"Yet you were found on the road to Solitude dressed in the customary Elven armor of a Thalmor guard. Hmm."

He leaned forward conspiratorially and continued. "We both know that the real Viscount of Skingrad was not in attendance. I'm willing to bet Sven is an assumed name, albeit not a very inventive one. But, you see," he paused, smiling, "I did you a favor. I could have turned you over to the Thalmor Justiciars, and they are far less pleasant than I."

He leaned back in his chair. "Of course, it still could be done. We have a good working relationship, I'll have you know. But I'm willing to consider striking up a deal of sorts if you would do me a favor in return and answer some questions."

"Where is the woman I was captured with?" Jakt asked, trying to keep the unease in his voice to a minimum.

The imperial shook his head. "I won't answer any of your questions until you answer mine. That's how a fair exchange of information works, you know."

"There's nothing fair about this particular exchange," Jakt replied.

"It could be a great deal less fair, if you continue to insist so."

"Who are you?"

"I was just about to ask you that question. What kind of fool breaks into a Thalmor Embassy?"

Jakt cleared his throat. "A very determined one."

"Clearly. Others might say, 'one with a death wish.' I'm surprised you made it out. Did you have help? Party guests? Agents of our own, perhaps?"

The man's pleasant tone was unnerving. Jakt felt his heartbeat ratchet up a couple of paces. "Why would your agents want to rob the Thalmor?"

The man laughed. "When it comes to gathering information, you won't find anyone else so precise and methodical. And with such little regard for life, for that matter."

"Am I detecting a note of jealousy?"

The man smiled. "Respect, perhaps. I get the feeling you know much about the Thalmor."

He reached under the table and produced a couple of leather-bound books. Jakt recognized them immediately as the dossiers that he had stolen from the interrogation room in the embassy and resisted the urge to groan audibly.

"In fact," the man continued slyly, "based on the spoils of your little thieving spree, I get the feeling that we might even be on the same side."

Jakt was silent. The man was probably trying to trick him into admitting something. He wished he were better at this sort of thing.

"If that is true," he replied slowly, trying a different tactic, "Then will you tell me who you are?"

The man shrugged. "I don't see the harm in it. I'm Gaius Maro. Imperial agent, obviously. Yourself?"

"Jakt," Jakt grunted.

The man laughed. "Short and to the point. How typically Nordic. But you don't speak Imperial with an accent. Are you from Skyrim originally?"

Jakt looked at him warily. There was definitely something very off-putting by Maro's easy manner. Then again, he didn't see the point of concealing arbitrary information.

"No," he said, "Grew up in Cyrodil. Came to Skyrim recently."

"Fleeing trouble?" Maro asked mischievously.

When Jakt didn't reply, the man shook his head and smiled. "Not that it's any of my business. What _is_ my business-" he pushed one of the Thalmor Dossiers forward - "are threats to the Empire."

The dossier read "Dragon Crisis/Dragonborn." Jakt felt dread rising up from his stomach, like ice-cold bile. He wondered how much Maro knew, for the man was obviously accustomed to giving little away.

"It seems ours friends the Thalmor know as little as we do about Skyrim's dragon pest problem," Maro started conversationally.

"Your friends. They aren't mine."

Maro smiled condescendingly. "You Nords. You really don't understand the necessity of keeping up appearances, do you? I envy your tendency towards harsh candor, childish though it may be."

Jakt didn't reply.

"They are scrambling to understand it just as we are," Maro continued, "Only in a manner more dignified, at least on the surface. And they have come to the conclusion that this man-" he slid the dossier labeled Esbern forward - "holds the answers we all seek."

Jakt took the dossier in his shackled hands and opened it clumsily. It was very brief and only took a moment to read.

"He's a Blade," he said out loud, without thinking.

"You're familiar with them?"

Jakt looked up at Maro. The man was smiling, but his eyes were cold, calculating. Jakt did the only thing he could think of to avoid unintentionally giving something away or spilling his guts - he stayed silent.

Maro nodded slowly. "I suppose it doesn't matter. The Blades are a relic, long dead and buried, so they can't really help him any more, can they? But Jakt, you and I, _we_ can help."

He leaned forward again. "If this Esbern knows what the Thalmor think he knows, then we need to track him down. The Gods know what the Thalmor would do with that kind of information."

"Why would I work for you?" Jakt asked bitterly, "I've been on the wrong side of Imperial justice before, if it even deserves to be called that. You talk about the Blades like they're dead and gone, but the truth is, you're headed to the grave as well."

Maro's smile disappeared. He pulled something else out of the knapsack underneath the table, which by now Jakt had figured out was the one he'd carried from the Thalmor Embassy. He slid it forward. It was a leather shoulder pauldron, painted black. Jakt recognized it as a piece of Drake's patchwork leather armor. Maro pointed to a small marking, etched with white, partially rubbed out. It looked like a tall, skinny diamond with a circle inside of it.

"Recognize that symbol?"

Jakt squinted at it for a moment and shook his head.

"The Thieves Guild," snapped Maro. "It's their sigil. They've got their grimy little paws in every cheap junket this side of Hammerfell. The penalty for association is quite steep, you know. Hefty jail time, at the very best." Maro's eyes glinted dangerously. "You don't have ties to them, do you?"

He paused. "In fact, I believe you left the Embassy with a member of the Thieves Guild, did you not?

Jakt's throat tightened. In his concern for Lysana, he had forgotten all about Etienne Rarnis. Then he felt a stab of anger when he remembered that Rarnis had tried to implicate them when they had been captured, giving them away as pretenders. The gratitude of the Thieves Guild, it seemed, was not worth much.

"I don't suppose you want to know what happened to your friend?" Maro asked softly.

Jakt shrugged. He cared little.

"He hanged."

"So to answer your earlier question," he continued, when Jakt did not reply, "Firstly, you don't really have a choice, unless you consider rotting away in a dungeon or swinging on a rope a valid option. Secondly, the Empire is the only one capable of standing up to the Thalmor. So you'd best hope that what you say isn't true, unless you want your children speaking Elvish. Should they even be that lucky."

Jakt tilted his head defiantly. "Ulfric Stormcloak has done more to resist-"

"Ulfric Stormcloak?!" Maro laughed, cutting him off. "Are you thick? The Thalmor love him!"

"That's horseshit."

"Don't believe me?" he slid another dossier forward, this one labeled Stormcloak. Jakt didn't bother to try and read this one, for it was much thicker.

"He keeps the Empire off balance. Let me tell you something, Jakt, the Thalmor have been working his angle for years, ever since the Great War, really. He needles away at us with his little rebellion, distracting us from our true quarry, and the best part is, they don't even need to order him around! He's the perfect agent." Maro looked jealous again, positively sulky at that.

Jakt shook his head. "I don't believe you. He's a hero. While you slither around in the tall grass, trying to get the jump on the Thalmor because you lack the guts to face them openly."

Maro shrugged. "Believe what you will. It matters not to me. What does matter is that you find this Esbern, learn what he knows, and report it to me. After that, you are free to run to Ulfric's arms, if you so desire."

Jakt raised his eyebrows at that. "Why give me this deal?"

Maro smiled cryptically. "I thought you were clever, Jakt. Come on! You're a nobody, untraceable. The Thalmor probably think you're working with the Blades, or something foolish like that. And, no offense, but you're also expendable."

"Even still," Jakt said slowly, finding it hard to believe, "This sounds like an awful risk on your part."

Maro's smile widened. "Well, lets just say, somehow in your travels you managed to make a very powerful friend. And that friend vouched for you."

At that, he stood and unlocked the door, leaving Jakt to puzzle over those words. "Now come. There's someone waiting for you. I will of course return your equipment, although I'm afraid we're going to have to hold on to the Thalmor garb you… confiscated. I had copies of the dossiers made, so you're free to take those as well."

"Will you unshackle me now?" Jakt asked, wryly.

Maro turned to look him in the eye. His eyes glinted.

"Do you know why I shackled you in the first place, Jakt? I didn't need to, of course. We both know you weren't going anywhere."

Jakt shook his head.

"I wanted to remind you who's really in control."

* * *

Maro led him out of the dungeon and into an anteroom where an armored Imperial Officer stood at attention. Jakt was surprised to see the officer was a woman. Her armor was well polished, adorned with the simple red and gold stripes of an Imperial Legate.

"He's all yours, Rikke," Maro said casually, bowing low.

"That's Legate to you, Maro," she replied coldly. "Out."

Maro smirked and stalked out of the room. The Legate turned to Jakt, sizing him up. Jakt did the same. She had striking features, clear blue eyes and distinctly Nordic fair hair, pulled back in a tight, low ponytail. Taller than he, Rikke made for quite the imposing figure. Jakt wondered if she wore her armor everywhere she went.

"I wanted to meet you," Rikke began, slowly. Her voice was low and sharp. "It either takes great courage or great stupidity to do what you did at that Embassy. The legion needs capable warriors, not to mention those capable of standing up to the Thalmor, and as far as I'm concerned, your distinctly Nordic propensity for risk-taking is an asset it has in short supply."

"You're trying to recruit me?" Jakt said, trying and failing to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

Rikke arched an eyebrow. "I know Maro has you running errands. He's a snake, he lacks honor. But the legion isn't about subterfuge; it's about service and sacrifice, protecting the goodly folk. Ulfric threatens that peace. As do the elves."

Jakt shook his head. He knew he had to be careful around an Imperial Legate, but he couldn't help himself. "Ulfric is fighting for that peace. It is the legion who is incapable of providing it."

Rikke scowled. "Bold words, for an outlander such as yourself. If you haven't yet joined him, my offer still stands. But make no mistake, you will have to make a choice, boy. And when you make it, pray that we do not meet on the field of battle."

She paused. "You're free to leave. Your mage is waiting in the next room. I suggest you take care of whatever task Maro has assigned to you quickly and efficiently and then walk away. His organization…" she paused to rethink her words.

"He's not worthy of your trust."

Jakt smiled. "At least we can agree on that."

Rikke nodded and pursed her lips in what might have been a smile. Jakt took that as a dismissal. He shouldered his re-packed knapsack, buckled his sword to his belt, and walked to greet Lysana.

She was standing in the entranceway of the main hall, reading, dressed once again in her familiar robes. She looked up to reveal a bruised, swollen eye, black as midnight. He could not resist grinning ruefully at her appearance, but it faltered when she raised her eyebrows and scowled.

"I'm not very skilled at restorative magic," she explained testily.

"Nice to see you too," Jakt said, pouting with mock hurt. Lysana smiled and shook her head.

"You too. Did you get interrogated as well?"

Jakt nodded. "Some spook. Gaius Maro." He was actually a little disappointed that she didn't seem happier to see him, but he pushed those thoughts away; apparently she wanted to talk business.

At that moment, however, the door creaked open, flooding the chamber with daylight. A small company of Imperial scouts filed in and marched by, sizing them up as they passed. Jakt did the same. They looked haggard, overtaxed, much like the rest of the legionnaires in Solitude.

Lysana looked around. "We shouldn't talk here. Back to the Winking Skeever."

* * *

Once they were out of sight of Castle Dour, in the thick of the bustling afternoon streets of Solitude, Lysana turned and threw her arms around Jakt. He seemed surprised; then again, she had put on a show in Castle Dour, uncomfortable of showing affection for anything in that stifling place.

"I was worried," she murmured into his shoulder.

He cleared his throat. "Me too."

She drew back and looked up at him. He obviously hadn't slept much, and his hair was unkempt and greasy. The guards had trundled him up in a spare tunic that had evidently belonged to a much fatter man, which he wore over his classic prisoner's burlap sack trousers and foot wraps.

"You look horrible."

He cracked a grin. "You look great. Did they give you a penthouse cell, or something?"

She grinned in return, but the effort of smiling made her bruised face throb, and it became a grimace instead. Jakt noticed and looked pained.

"I could use some sherry," she said quietly, "But first we should get you something else to wear. It's embarrassing to be seen with you."

They strolled through the market to a vendor selling armor. Jakt withdrew the fine mail coat from his knapsack and, after some haggling, traded it in for a scaled jerkin. It was decorated in the classic Nord fashion, inlaid with carved steel, and topped off with two large pauldrons. The polished scales glinted beautifully in the afternoon sunlight. The bottom half of the armor consisted of a thick fur skirt that came down to mid thigh, out of which sprouted two rigid scale pieces designed to protect the upper legs from slashing cuts.

Jakt unbuckled his sword, pulled off the overlarge tunic to reveal splendid musculature, and then slipped the scaled cuirass over his body. Then he turned to her and grinned.

"You need some proper boots," Lysana recommended, trying not to admire his bare arms too obviously.

Jakt nodded, withdrew some coin, and, instead of buying the matching scale boots, bought some reinforced leather ones and a pair of matching bracers for the same price. He pulled the boots on over the rucksack pants and tightened the bracers on his forearms. Then he buckled on his sword, shouldered the knapsack and turned again for her opinion.

Lysana smiled. "You look like a traveling vagabond. But not a shabby one, at least."

Jakt gripped his bare upper arms. "I'll have to sew on some leather or plate or something; I'll never understand the Nordic obsession with baring one's biceps. Just isn't smart."

"I didn't know the Fighters Guild taught their people to sew."

Jakt laughed. "You'd be surprised at the useful skills you pick up with them."

Suddenly a familiar smell wafted through the breeze. Lysana perked up and turned around to immediately spot her quarry: a small pastry cart manned by an old Breton woman.

She grabbed Jakt's hand and eagerly led him over to the cart. The woman appeared to be dozing off, but smiled when Lysana planted herself in front of the kiosk.

"Pastries from High Rock," the woman croaked.

"You have Jehanna Cinnamon Twirls?"

The old woman nodded. "Fresh baked."

"Jakt, try one!"

Lysana deposited eight septims on the counter and waited as the woman creaked down and retrieved two of the pastries from the warmed container underneath the cart. She bit back her disappointment when she saw them: they were crudely twisted, as opposed to elegantly twirled in the old Jehannan fashion. But a moment later, when she bit into the pastry, that disappointment blew away like a leaf in the breeze.

"My mother used to bake these back home," she explained to Jakt, beaming as he gingerly bit into his. He hummed with contentment and finished the whole thing off in one bite.

Lysana raised her eyebrow. "You're supposed to savor it!"

Jakt grinned back. "I was never a very patient child."

She shook her head. "She used to stuff them full of sweet cheese, then mix the cinnamon powder with icing and drizzle it on top. But these are almost as good."

"Was she from High Rock?"

She nodded. "Her parents were tavern owners in Jehenna. She was a barmaid; she followed my father to Markarth after she got pregnant with me. Then-"

She caught herself. Why was she telling Jakt this? If the College had taught her anything, it was that her old life wasn't important. Sorceresses must plan for the future, not sit around lamenting the past.

"She still around?"

She turned to look at Jakt. Their eyes met; the unmistakable pall of sorrow clouded his green orbs.

"No," she said solemnly. "Not that I know of, at least. They both disappeared after Ulfric… after the Markarth incident. I was young, I don't remember them well."

Jakt looked pained. "I'm sorry. I know how it feels."

Lysana shook her head. She wrestled this strange desire to confide in him into submission. "I don't think about it much. They were both young and foolish. It's a sad story, but it isn't very original." Her tone was colder than she intended.

Jakt nodded slowly, evidently understanding her subtext. He waited in silence as she finished her pastry then changed the subject.

"We missed the rendezvous with Drake," he began, "I don't suppose you've heard anything…"

"I was cooped up just like you were," she reminded him, "Although they saw fit to give me better accommodations, so it seems."

Jakt leaned forward. "They interrogated you too, you mentioned?"

Lysana scrunched up her face. "Your friend Maro came in and asked me some questions. I didn't tell him anything, naturally. I think he thought he would have better luck with you. Then the Legate came in and told me it was all a misunderstanding in the eyes of the law, and that I was free to go."

Jakt looked guilty.

"What did you tell him?" she asked dryly, feeling her chest tighten a little bit. Inwardly she bemoaned Jakt's patented lack of subtlety.

"Nothing, really," Jakt began, defensively. "He was well informed. He said he wanted the same thing as us."

"Does he know you're the Dragonborn, you fool?" Lysana felt herself starting to get angry.

"I don't know. He alluded, but never outright asked."

"You realize he wants to use you, right?"

Jakt threw up his hands in consternation. "Of course! I'm not brain-dead. But we - I didn't have a choice!"

Lysana was silent for a moment, trying to contain her frustration with him. "Well, obviously we've gotten the Empire's attention. No doubt they let us out so they could have us followed."

Jakt nodded. "I thought about that."

"Oh did you?" she replied, mockingly. He looked hurt for a moment and then she felt bad. It wasn't really his fault, after all.

"I'm sorry. It's been a rough couple of days. Let's get something to drink and then hit the road."

* * *

"So, the Thalmor seem to think that this Esbern has some connection to the Thieves Guild," Jakt began, thumbing through the dossier once.

Delphine perked up immediately. "What did you say?"

They sat in the secret room in the Sleeping Giant inn. After five long, hard days of traveling, watching the hills around of Solitude give way to the boggy pits of Eastmarsh, Lysana was tired and annoyed. At least her eye had finally started to heal. Delphine had greeted them with her customary coolness, then listened to their story with aura of disappointment. Lysana watched her intently as Jakt repeated what he'd been saying. "They seem to think that this 'Esbern' guy-"

Delphine leaned forward and gripped Jakt's hand like a vice. From the look on his face, it hurt pretty badly. It was the most expressive that Lysana had ever seen the old Breton.

"Esbern… he's alive!?"

"You know him?" Jakt said, puzzled.

"Of course! He's a Blade. Or rather, he was the chronicler for the chapter in Cyrodil. That crazy old bastard!"

She stood, her mouth breaking out into a smile of euphoria. Lysana found her newfound range of expression a little bit terrifying.

"Come on," she said, "We're leaving immediately. If there's anyone who will know how to sort out this mess, it'll be Esbern."

Jakt stood with her. "Wait, Delphine, I don't think that's such a great idea."

"Why not?" She replied sharply.

"Well for one thing, we're exhausted -"

"The Thalmor know you're operating in Skyrim, Delphine," Lysana interjected, "But they don't know where exactly. We can't risk the two of you in one place."

A look of pure rage passed over Delphine's face for a moment before it returned to its customary blank state.

"She's right," Jakt said, sliding the dossier labeled 'Delphine' over to her. "We'll go and retrieve him."

Delphine sighed and slumped a bit, picking up her dossier and thumbing through the pages. "Gods take me, you're right."

For a moment, just a moment, she looked old and tired. Then she snapped up.

"Right. The Thieves Guild has a presence in Riften. Start with the inn there, the Bee and Barb. I've heard rumors about a hideout in the Ratway, but that place is a labyrinth. If I know Esbern, and I do, he's gone to ground there."

Jakt nodded and exchanged an uneasy glance with Lysana.

"There's one more thing," he began, awkwardly.

"Drake - the Imperial - has he made any contact with you?" Lysana finished, quickly.

Delphine looked nonplussed. "He hasn't been through here. Then again, I doubt he would, were he not with you."

"We lost contact with him at the party," Jakt explained.

Delphine's brow furrowed. "You think they caught him?"

Lysana shrugged. "He wasn't in the interrogation room in the Embassy, or in Castle Dour. We missed our planned rendezvous when we were locked up, so I suppose it's possible the Thalmor might have gotten hold of him. But we also know he has - or used to have - contact with the Guild."

"Of course the little shit disappears when he could be most useful," Delphine said, grimacing. "Assume the worst. If he turns up, I wouldn't trust him."

Lysana nodded and then turned to Jakt, trying not to look too accusatory. Jakt swallowed, clearly chafing under her glare. She could tell he was conflicted, but Lysana knew that she was right. Had Drake ever really proved himself trustworthy to begin with?

"Jakt," Delphine said, clearly impatient to change the subject, "Esbern is even more paranoid than I. If you manage to track him down, you need to prove that he can trust you, or at least that you aren't trying to kill him. When you see him, ask him, 'Where were you on the 30th of Frostfall?'"

"Uh, okay. What does that mean, exactly?"

"It doesn't matter," Delphine waved her hand dismissively to illustrate her point. "Esbern will know."

Jakt sat down heavily. "We'll leave first thing tomorrow. I need a feather bed."

Delphine laughed, something that Lysana had never seen her do. Evidently the news about Esbern was enough to elicit mirth from the hard woman.

"I had no idea the Dragonborn was so soft," she said. "I'll have Orgnar make up a room."

* * *

Deja vu lurked in the back of Jakt's mind as they inched their way towards Riften. He remembered the last time he had come this way - barely two weeks prior - in order to kill the dragon at Kynesgrove. When the last semblance of normality had fled his life completely.

Lysana matched his steps. She had been coldly quiet, and Jakt knew why: when they first set out, they had argued bitterly about Drake. It had gone pretty much how he had expected. Lysana had immediately agreed with Delphine; the Imperial was not to be trusted, she had said, and might even have sold them out. Jakt vouched for him, lost his temper, told her to shut up. In response, she had labeled him naive and foolish, as she was apt to do, and had barely spoken since. He was beginning to feel bad about the fight. It didn't help that a nagging voice in his head kept reminding him that she had a point, that Drake was ultimately looking out for Drake. But he did not want to admit that she might be right, not only because of his pride, but also because he wanted to believe she wrong.

Now, they trudged up onto the plateau of the Rift in silence. Jakt watched as the coniferous trees and temperate climate of Whiterun hold gave way to cooler everglade forests. Once again he was struck by the surprising variety of Skyrim's climate, and the extent of its haunting beauty.

Suddenly Lysana tapped his arm and pointed ahead. Four men loped towards them, gripping their sheathed weapons in the customary manner of peaceful wariness. Jakt stopped, gripped his own sword tightly by the hilt, but left it in its scabbard. As they drew nearer, he recognized the sky blue of the Stormcloak rebellion. From the make of their garb - simple armor crafted of studded leather and fur - they looked to be scouts.

"Travelers!" the leader hailed the pair once she drew within five yards of them, "State your business in the Rift."

Jakt stepped forward, raising his hand from his hilt and placing his palms up in a show of peaceful deference.

"We make for Riften. Our business is our own. We are friendly, however, to your cause." He could practically feel Lysana's annoyed glare burning a hole in the side of his neck, but he ignored her.

The officer raised her own hand from her belted axe and motioned for her men to do the same. Then she strode forward and offered his hand to Jakt, who clasped it heartily.

"Hail, kinsman," the woman smiled. She was young, as were her comrades: young and proud. They all had the distinct Nord height and look, with fair hair and bright eyes.

"Its surprising to see Stormcloaks walking so brazenly on the Imperial highway," Lysana said to her, raising an eyebrow.

"Hail, little sister," the officer greeted Lysana with just a touch of condescension and turned back to Jakt. "You haven't heard the news?"

Jakt shook his head. "We're traveling from Whiterun Hold, so if it's recent news, than no."

"Ah," said the leader, narrowing her eyes, "That explains why you don't wear the blue. That old goat Balgruuf may bleat his neutrality without pause, but Talos knows his sympathies really lay with the Dragon."

"What happened?" Lysana interjected.

"The Stone-Fist, with his Army of Dusk, has taken Fort Greenwall," the officer began, puffing out her chest, "Driving those Imperial dogs _completely_ from the Rift. The sons and daughters of the Rift need no longer be afraid to fly their true colors, and Jarl Laila Law-Giver has publicly thrown in her support with Ulfric."

Jakt smiled. But then something Maro had said flashed through his head - the Thalmor were using Ulfric to weaken the Empire - and his smile faltered. Maro had left him the copy of the Thalmor dossier on Ulfric, but Jakt had yet to open it. Lysana had insisted that he hang onto it, of course, but had apparently respected his decision not to read it, and had stopped bothering him about it. Jakt had a little too much pride to admit that he was scared to open it, in all honesty.

Then again, what did he care? If the Stormcloaks could overthrow the Empire, the seat of power in Skyrim for more than two millennia, surely they could defeat a Thalmor invasion. The whole reason that Skyrim belonged to the Empire in the first place was because Tiber Septim himself was of Nordic descent, or so the tales said. And the last of the Septim blood was long dead.

_I owe nothing to the Empire._

"The Stormcloaks need your steel, brother," exclaimed one of the other scouts excitedly. "Have you any skill with that blade?"

Jakt nodded. He glanced at Lysana, whose face was impassive.

"I've business in Riften," Jakt explained, "But I will say that it bodes well for that business that there be no Imperial noses to sniff about in it."

The officer smiled and clasped his hand again. "Say no more, brother," she began, "I look forward to fighting by your side."

With that, the small company jogged off.

"That sounds like trouble," Lysana said wryly, once they were out of earshot. Jakt turned to face her, his temper rising once more.

"They're fighting for something they believe in," he said, his ears burning. "Can you say the same?"

"Jakt," she held out her hand, surprising him by dropping her cold and distant tone. "You might think Ulfric is trying to make Skyrim a better place. But really he's trying to make it a better place for Nords."

He brushed this aside. "Horseshit. The Empire prosecutes all its subjects, regardless of race. And don't even get me started with the Thalmor."

Lysana shook her head. "Did you see how they brushed me off back there? They don't respect those not of Nordic blood. They can tolerate Bretons because we're technically men, but do you think Khajiit or the Dunmer figure into Ulfric's vision? Tell me Jakt, is that something _you _believe in?"

Jakt scowled, but Lysana pressed forward, and the frantic look in her eyes made him pause.

"I know you grew up in Cyrodiil, and things are a little more cosmopolitan there, so I wanted you to see it for yourself. That may not have seemed like much, but things will be worse under Ulfric's thumb."

As she spoke, he recognized the glint in her eyes for what it was: fear.

"Just… It's something to think about. Keep an open mind. For me, okay?"

He nodded.

"Who knows?" she continued, shrugging. "Maybe if Ulfric wins, and gets what he wants, he'll ease up."

He could tell that she was just saying this to placate him. But why? A month ago she would have practically exploded at him for voicing his opinion on the issue. She _had_, in fact.

Jakt took a step forward and grasped her hand.

"You know… I wouldn't let anyone hurt you."

She drew away from him, a look of disgust spreading across her face. "I can look after myself. I'm not a floozy in distress, quivering every time a big strong man pledges himself to me!"

Jakt threw up his hands. "I was just trying to-"

"I know what you were trying to do, fool," she spat, "So typical for a 'big strong man.' You might be used to defenseless maidens melting at your feet but I promise you, it isn't that easy."

Jakt got the sense that her frustration wasn't really directed at him per se. Instead of fighting fire with fire, he held up his hands in a gesture of peace.

"I'm sorry,"

"No you're not."

"Well, I can't apologize for all my gender," he began, searching for the right words, "But I am sorry for making you feel… undervalued. I just wanted you to know that... I heard what you said, and I value your opinion."

She snorted.

"Also," he admitted, "To be honest, I haven't much thought about doing… whatever it is you're implying. And I certainly wasn't trying then. I've traveled with... paramours before, and it never ends well."

"Good," Lysana said, her tone still cold, but with the hints of a conciliatory note. "We shant speak of it again then. Now let's get a move on."

Jakt nodded and fell into step slightly behind her, hoping that his face didn't betray the nagging disappointment he felt at her words.

* * *

Lysana felt lingering frustration as they traipsed into Riften two days later. They had spoken little for the remainder of their voyage, he largely deferring to her. She was more frustrated with their situation than with him: the Thalmor no doubt on their tail, the Empire following reluctantly in the wake of their Elven overlords, and the Stormcloaks wreaking havoc all along the way. She knew that it was not Jakt's fault that Maro and his Imperial stooges were now a factor, and was a little frustrated with herself for taking it out on him. But she found it difficult to tell him this, especially given their tumultuous few days, and what she suspected might be some unspoken feeling between the two of them.

So they had marched on in relative silence.

At the gate to Riften, a guard stopped to demand a toll for their entry. Lysana threatened retribution from the College of Winterhold, her voice soft and frigid. It worked, the man awkwardly stepping back and apologizing profusely. She resisted the urge to shake her head at him: the superstition of Nords never ceased to amaze her.

It was with low spirits that she strolled through the gate, Jakt following wordlessly behind. She had heard the rumors of Riften's lawlessness: a foolish, proud Jarl totally in the dark, her authorities all on the payroll, and the leering menace of the Thieves Guild lurking in the shadows. A classmate of hers from the College who had grown up here held that Maven Black-Briar, the head of the successful Black-Briar Meadery, played the puppetmaster to all of Riften's dangling strings. Having never sought to visit it herself, she regretted having brushed him off as a rumormonger instead of seeking to gleam a kernel of truth from his words.

A large, bustling crowd greeted them as they walked down the poorly cobbled avenue towards the central canal that snaked its way through the town's main square. She could see the tall barges moored to the dock, each one containing merchants and their wares, draped in the sunlight for all to inspect. The central square itself was built like an Imperial amphitheater, decorated with wooden kiosks manned by all matter of men, mer and beast peddling a vast assortment of goods. If Solitude was the seat of government in Skyrim, and Whiterun its cultural epicenter, then Riften was its commercial capital. And as every man knew, where money flowed freely, so too did greed and corruption.

A large, dark-haired man, tall and wide in the Nordic way, dressed in carved steel armor with a battle-axe strapped to his back stopped them before they reached the gathering. He was leaning on one of the pillars that circled the amphitheater and beckoned them over with a simple gesture. His face was twisted into what looked like a permanent grimace, enhanced by the snakelike scars that adorned it.

"Hold," he growled, "You two don't look familiar. And I don't like strangers."

Jakt took a step forward, eyeing the man with an expression of challenge.

"We're couriers from Whiterun," he began, "Here on behalf of our master to deliver an important message."

The man grunted, clearly unimpressed. "Who's the client, and what's the business?"

Jakt exchanged a look with Lysana. "We're not at liberty to discuss that."

The man shrugged. "Suit yourself. But be warned: nothing stays private for long in Riften. Stay outta trouble, and stay outta my way."

He shooed them away with a wave of his hand. Lysana could feel Jakt's pride bristling, but she scooped him by the arm and led him to the marketplace.

"What do we do now?" he whispered to her.

"I don't know," she confessed, "Find some way to contact the guild." She kicked herself inwardly for the haphazard nature of this plan.

Suddenly Jakt perked up, then charged into the crowd. Lysana followed as best she could, but got held up by a pair of Khajiit who were trying to transport a rolled-up rug. Then she heard the sounds of a commotion and, with a sinking feeling, pushed her way through the crowd to where a circle of spectators was forming.

She reached the circle just in time to see Jakt pick up a small simpering man and send him flying into a pile of woven baskets. The baskets collapsed, sending their cargo - freshly-caught fish - sliding all over the place. The man pushed himself upright, grabbed his head and moaned, and Lydia recognized him - it was Etienne Rarnis, the fool who had repaid them for saving his life at the embassy by trying to sell them out.

Rarnis pushed a particularly sloppy specimen off his lap and looked up to see Jakt striding towards him with a purpose, his face twisted in anger. Several things happened in quick sequence: Rarnis screamed bloody murder, a loud whistle sounded, and a trio of guards burst through the outer perimeter made up by the spectators. Two of the guards moved to restrain Jakt while the third skidded to a stop. The fish merchant, a skinny Nord man in a funny-looking hat evidently away visiting some other kiosk, had returned and realized what had happened to his stock. He decided to add to the din by hopping up and down yelling profanities at Jakt.

"What in Oblivion is going on here?" yelled the guard commander, a tall fat man with drooping mustaches.

"He owes me money," Jakt growled at the man, narrowing his eyes at Rarnis, who had scrambled to his feet and was trying to slink off. A fourth guard moved forward and grabbed the small Breton by his arm, dragging him to the center of the scene.

"Disperse, people!" called the guard, waving both his hands, sweat dripping from his face. "Show's over. No more to see here."

The crowd began to break up, laughing and muttering as they meandered back to their business. The fish merchant continued to berate Jakt until Jakt turned a glowering gaze his way, shutting him up.

"Both of you will help Bolli pick up these fish," the guard captain began, addressing Jakt and Etienne as if they were naughty children, "And then we will get this sorted out."

Jakt obediently helped scoop the fish back into their baskets, wrinkling his nose at the smell. Etienne tried to run off as soon as the guard released him, resulting in a ridiculous dogpile as he promptly slipped on a wriggling bass and three guards threw themselves on top of him. The crowd started to return, laughter sounding from their ranks, only to be shooed away again by the arrival of yet more guards. This second attempt at escape landed Rarnis in ankle chains, and he waddled miserably over to the pile of fish and began to scoop them into the baskets with some difficulty.

Lysana moved over close to Jakt, watching with her arms crossed until he had lifted the last of the smelly cargo into their vessels and paid the fish merchant twenty septims for the trouble. He turned to her, rubbing his neck sheepishly, and she fixed him with the most withering gaze that she could possibly produce.

"If all of Riften didn't know we were here," she said in a low, dangerous voice, "They certainly do now."

Jakt winced. At that moment the guard captain approached, Rarnis shuffling after, his head hung low.

"Right then," huffed the man, his chins wobbling ever so slightly as he jutted them forward in what he no doubt considered an authoritative manner, "Do I have to bring you two down to the lockup or can we settle this out right here?"

"I don't have any money!" Rarnis cried desperately, blubbering "And I don't know what he's talking about! I've never seen him in my life! Don't let him get his hands on me!"

Jakt shook his head and rolled his eyes disparagingly. "We can hash this out, sir. Sorry for the public disturbance. I'm willing to forgo the debt if he tells me what I want to hear about my shipments."

Rarnis fell silent. The guard captain looked at Jakt for a long moment, his mind churning.

"Very well," he said at long last, "I'll let you off with a warning this time because you're new to Riften, and because Rarnis deserved that tumble you gave him. But be warned: the penalty for disturbing the peace is an afternoon in the stocks."

Jakt nodded, then waited as the guards unlocked the Breton and sauntered away, leaving them alone in the marketplace. Rarnis's eyes swiveled around, no doubt looking for another escape route, but before he could get any further ideas Lysana stepped forward to address the man.

"If you try and run once more," she began, "I'll burn you alive."

She snapped her finger, generating a tiny flame on the end of her thumb to illustrate her point. Rarnis whimpered.

"You ungrateful piece of shit," Jakt growled at him, "You're lucky we haven't gutted you."

"I couldn't get captured again!" Rarnis panted hysterically, "The Elves - they're…"

He staggered over to a stone bench and sat down, hyperventilating. Jakt lost some of his fire, a look of pity replacing the one of fury and disgust.

"I'm sorry," he admitted, "They're monsters. But you did get captured again, didn't you?"

Once he had calmed himself, Rarnis nodded. "Yes. Imperials."

"Why'd they let you go?"

Rarnis shrugged. "Dunno. Some spook got me to spill my guts about why the Thalmor had captured me and then told me I was free to go."

"They told me you hanged," Jakt said, frowning. Lysana studied Rarnis's face closely: he seemed genuinely surprised at that.

"What? Why?"

"They're playing games with us, Etienne," Lysana said, "They probably let you go to serve as a distraction for the Thalmor while we did their dirty work."

Rarnis' eyes grew wide and frantic. "Does that mean… Gods above, they've followed me here, haven't they?!"

Jakt scowled. "Quiet! You want to draw even more attention to us?"

Lysana put a hand on Jakt's arm and stared down at the little man with what she hoped was a soothing, pained expression.

"Etienne," she began, hoping that she sounded suitably supportive, "We can help you. Tell us what you know about Esbern, and the Thalmor will follow us instead of you and you'll be free to flee."

Rarnis looked up at her with a wild expression. "But then... They'll capture you and torture you too!"

Jakt, having caught on to her approach at this point, clapped a hand on his shoulder. "We can handle whatever the Thalmor throw at us, Etienne. Come, the faster you tell us, the quicker you can get out of here."

The man sighed, threw up his hands. "What do I care happens to the old coot anyways? All I know is, the Guild stuffed someone in the depths of the Ratway with the rest of the madmen that live there. People go there to hide, you know, people seeking asylum, and the Guild charges a premium for it. Most of them never come out, they're torn apart or else they become as mad as the rest."

Jakt looked to Lysana uneasily.

"Is there anything else you can-"

"No!" Rarnis interrupted, choking, "That's all I know, I swear it! Vex might know more - or Brynjolf. They're guild members. Go talk to them!"

"Who? How do we get into contact with them?"

"Brynjolf hangs around the Bee and Barb most evenings. Vex never leaves the Ragged Flagon except when she's on a job."

"The where?" Lysana was starting to get annoyed.

"The bar where the Guild drinks and networks - you won't find it unless someone in the Guild wants you to. Go ask someone else, I'm leaving!"

With that, he dashed off. Jakt let him go.

"Fool," Lysana muttered with spite, "Why did he think it was safe to come back here? He told the Thalmor practically everything he knows, of course they're onto him."

Jakt sighed. "They'll be onto us too now. At least we have some sort of lead now."

Lysana felt her shoulders droop. It was hard to believe just a week or so ago they were munching on pastries and flitting about like a pair of butterflies. Now all she wanted to do was walk away from him, from all of this.

She resisted that urge and followed him to the Bee and Barb.

* * *

Jakt turned around to catch a last glimpse of the moons high overhead right before the door to the Ratway closed behind them. He took a deep breath and immediately regretted it due to the dank, putrid smell that nearly overpowered his nostrils. Lysana cursed quietly, gripping his hand in what he assumed was a reaction to the smell. After a moment she whispered something and an orb of pale green light flashed out from her open hand. It floated lazily upwards to hover slightly above their heads. Jakt felt a deep sense of foreboding as he stepped forward into the corridor, now bathed in eerie green-blue shades.

He stepped to the side in order to avoid the scummy liquid that ran towards them in a wide, shallow trough that bisected the upwardly-sloping hallway. Placing a hand to the moist, clammy stone wall he inched forward then picked up the pace as his eyes grew more accustomed to the light. In response, Lysana began to dim the orb so that their eyes better adjusted, then finally cast a spell designed to heighten their night vision. The effect was to bathe the area in moonlight, giving everything an ethereal, ghastly glow. While Jakt appreciated the gesture, it put him even more on edge.

"We were lucky that she was so accommodating," muttered Lysana sarcastically as they trudged along, "I think she liked you."

Jakt sighed. When he had asked the Argonian barkeep in the inn about Brynjolf, he had wordlessly pointed to a beautiful, dark-haired woman dressed in supple leather armor who sat in the corner, sipping her wine with grace. The woman - who called herself Sapphire - had assumed that Jakt was making a pass at her when he sidled up and practically spat venom when she told him to get lost and shove his head… somewhere unpleasant. It took some cajoling to convince her that he was in fact a prospective Thieves Guild hopeful and that he sought to meet Brynjolf in order to petition for membership. Jakt had surprised himself by putting together a relatively convincing story under pressure about his prowess, then impressing her with knowledge of the organization he had gleaned from hearing Drake talk in his sleep. Perhaps Drake's effortless ability to spin tall tales had rubbed off on him. Finally Sapphire agreed to set up a meeting in the Ratway in order to assess his capabilities, but not before expressing her sincere doubt in him punctuated by a few choice profanities.

"Let's just keep moving."

Lysana had been in poor spirits for the past couple of days. Now her mood was positively abysmal, and Jakt was finding it difficult not to rise to her increasingly piercing barbs. She blamed him for their predicament, or so it seemed, and had a point: subtlety was not normally his strong suit. At this point, however, it was no use shedding tears over spilt ale. Then again, maintaining that kind of objectivity while crawling through a sewer was no mean feat.

To call the Ratway a sewer was to do it a disservice. It was more like a network of ancient tunnels that happened to serve the secondary purpose of waste collection and removal. They followed the corridor until they reached a sharp left, at which point the origin of the shallow trough of watery sludge revealed itself as a large grate in the wall. The tunnel descended sharply, then opened up into a larger, cavernous hallway with a much bigger canal of water that bisected the chamber. It looked deep and foreboding. Darkness stretched on in both directions, but luckily Sapphire had been kind enough to tell them which way to go.

They followed the chamber to the left until they came to a grated doorway. Jakt lifted it easily - it was unsecured - and stepped through the door into the small, low tunnel that lay behind it. Eventually the passageway opened up into a small room that contained an eerie scene: what looked like an alchemist's garden growing in a patch of sunlight that filtered down from a grated skylight far above them. All sorts of bizarre plants grew in the half-light: withered flowers, glowing moss, veined leaves, and large, stumpy mushrooms, all arranged roughly in the shape of a circle. In the middle of the garden, perched on a mound of grass, was a wooden stump. Buried in the stump was a woodcutter's axe, rusted with age. The stump itself was covered in the unmistakable stains of long-dried blood.

"I was told there would be one," came a soft, melodic voice from behind them. Jakt nearly jumped out of his skin as he whirled around. He felt Lysana draw close and clamp down on his arm in panic.

He could barely make out a lithe, feminine form in the eerie light. Whoever it was wore a hood, obscuring most of her face. She took a step forward, her hand on the ebony, carved hilt of a sheathed sword, revealing only a pair of purple eyes. The shadows seemed to cling unnaturally to her face and her form.

"You aren't Brynjolf, are you?" Lysana asked. Despite her dry tone, her grip on his arm remained tight and tense. Jakt mirrored the strange woman's pose and gripped his own weapon by the hilt.

"Tha' would be me, lass," came a second voice, behind them once again. Jakt turned again to see a man standing next to the stump in the middle of the garden, perching one leg atop it. He was strikingly handsome: he had a gaunt, sharp face crowned with long auburn hair and a meticulously-groomed goatee. His patchwork leather armor seemed perfectly designed for the practical thief, consisting of boiled leather plates criss-crossed with all manner of belts and pockets and dyed a deep dark blue. In style it was similar to the armor that Drake used to wear, Jakt realized.

"Now ye wouldn't both be wantin' to join the Guild, would ye?" he continued, his accent thick and uncommon for a Nord, "Or, as I suspect, have ye hailed us for some other perpouse?"

Jakt cleared his throat. The woman slowly stalked around to join Brynjolf on the grassy mound, weaving through the plants that grew about with silent grace. In the faint light, Jakt was able to make out her face: She was a Dunmer, her skin purple-black, the faintest hint of snow-white hair peeking out from under her dark hood. She, like Brynjolf, was quite the specimen, with a breathtakingly beautiful air that made Jakt feel a bit lightheaded. She placed a hand on Brynjolf's shoulder and leaned against him in a manner that suggested intimate familiarity.

Lysana spoke up. "We seek a fugitive, harbored by your guild."

"For what purpose?" The Dunmer spoke, her voice like the quiet lament of a songbird.

"Many seek to hide in the Ratway," Brynjolf began, lazily. "Friends a' the Guild, or at least our clients. Wha' reason have we to betray them to… disingenuous creatures such as yerselves?"

"We have ties to the guild," Lysana said, a mite defensively. Brynjolf looked bemused.

"We traveled at length with one of your members," Jakt explained, "An Imperial named Quintus Drake."

The dark elf woman hissed a curse in her native tongue. Brynjolf's brow shot up at the name.

"Ah," he started, "so ye're his latest victims, are ye? An honorless mercenary and a wizard pup?" His voice was mocking. "I see the 'Dawn Raven' keeps significantly lousier company of late."

"What do you mean?" Jakt replied, frowning in confusion. He had a sinking feeling that dropping Drake's name may have been a mistake.

"That fetcher is a whoring, lying traitor," the Dunmer spat, her purple eyes flashing in a declaration of anger that Jakt found undeniably attractive.

"Calm yerself, Karliah," Brynjolf drawled, waving his hand. He turned back to the two. "What happened to Drake? Ye no longer travel with him, I see."

"We were separated," Lysana said curtly, "While we rotted in prison he disappeared. Believe me, there is no love lost between us."

Brynjolf chuckled. "If ye thought ta' impress us with tha' name, ye miscalculated. But it makes no difference now. Quintus Drake is not who he says he is, and should ye ever meet again then I advise ye ta' stick blade in his ribs while he turns his back."

"He was a guild member, I take it?" Lysana asked.

Karliah nodded. "He broke our most sacred rules and was excommunicated," she explained. "As Brynjolf said before, it matters not. If we are to deal, then let us deal."

Their cold, practical business acumen made Jakt nervous, but then again options were few.

"We seek an old man," he began, "Goes by the name of Esbern. Our intentions are peaceable - we need his help."

Karliah and Brynjolf exchanged looks. "This Esbern has proven… troublesome of late," Brynjolf began, "Many seek him, according ta' our networks. And he bothers our other… clients."

"Three hundred septims," Karliah, "And we will lead you to him."

Jakt was surprised. "You would betray him so easily?"

Brynjolf shrugged. "Ye do us a service by retrievin' him. An' for what it's worth, I can always tell a liar from one who speaks truth. And yew, sir, are no great liar."

Jakt grinned sheepishly despite himself. He withdrew his coin pouch and counted out thirty ten-pieces and handed them to Karliah, who pocketed them without a sound.

"Good, then," Brynjolf said with a smile, "Now that we've taken care a' tha', come with me."

From there Brynjolf led them on a winding path through the Ratway, through what looked to be a bustling underground marketplace, complete with a well-stocked bar and pub, a herbarium, and a blacksmith. The marketplace was situated about a central pool, filled with strikingly clear water. All manner of clientele of all Nirn's races wandered about, hustling, drinking, boasting, flirting and even, in one corner, fist-fighting.

"This must be the Ragged Flagon," Lysana mumbled to Jakt, her hood pulled low over her face. Shaking off the scathing glares of two thuggish types as they passed through, Jakt wished for a similar method of disguise.

"She's right," Brynjolf chimed in with a merry grin, "The center of all questionable trade in Riften, and therefore of Skyrim itself. Not fifteen years ago this place was nigh-on abandoned, but the Guild brought it back to life. If ye aren't in a hurry I suggest taking a look at-"

"We are in a hurry, thanks," Lysana replied sardonically.

"Ah well lass, don't get yer knickers in a wad."

"How did you get it to not smell as bad?" Jakt asked with a grin.

Brynjolf grinned back, placed a finger next to his nose, and winked. "Trade secret," he replied cheekily.

From the Ragged Flagon their path led back into the Ratway, to the older tunnels. After a series of twists and turns down musty corridors they passed into an area that might have once been a dungeon. It was a long, wide corridor made of coarse stone blackened with age and moisture, and pockmarked with empty cells. At the end of the corridor was a doorway to a much larger, open area. Against one wall was a raised platform, under which more cells were situated. The top level looked to be accessible via a narrow stone staircase, and was decorated with arches. Further passageways dotted the room, some of them collapsed, others fading off into the darkness.

Some of the cells were occupied, it seemed. Muffled laughter sounded throughout the room, wafting in through one of the side tunnels. A disembodied woman's voice echoed a coarse lullaby while the sounds of a man tick-tocking like a clock mingled with the ambient ravings of what could only be the mad.

"Best stick close ta' me," Brynjolf said quietly to the both of them, "Welcome to the lower vaults of th' Ratway. This is where Skyrim's depraved and disfigured come to hide theirselves away. They fester away down here, the wretches, feeding on whatever scrambles their way, while their wits seep away into the stone." He turned around and smiled at them, and the eerie light of Lysana's night-vision spell made his gaunt face appear sinister and skeletal. Jakt swallowed. Who was Esbern, to hide himself away here, of all places?

They passed a cell, closed off with a wooden door, from which echoed the nauseating sound of a knife chopping through raw meat. Then another, which had metal bars, through which Jakt could see an ancient, gaunt woman who sat on the floor, rocking back and forth, crooning the names of the objects that lay before her over and over.

"Bucket. Inkpot. Stone. Book. Knife…"

Jakt shuddered to himself and kept moving, trying to block out her endless repertoire. Brynjolf led them up the staircase to the second level in the room, an arched stone walkway that continued into a short walled corridor. At the very end was a metal door. Brynjolf stopped and gestured to it.

Jakt approached cautiously. Whatever was behind the door was completely silent. He pounded away on the door, adding a metallic clang to the raucous chorus of the deranged.

"Who's there?" came a hoarse whisper from behind the door. A small rectangular slot at Jakt's eye level snapped open to reveal a pair of wrinkled blue eyes. Jakt stepped forward and squinted, hoping to catch a better glance at the face they belonged to.

"Esbern?"

The slot slammed shut, followed by a curse. From behind the door Jakt heard the sound of upended objects, rustling papers, the grinding clank of metal against wood and stone.

"Go away!"

"Delphine sent me!"

The rustling stopped, then continued again.

"Lhorkan's balls she did!"

Jakt pounded on the door again. "Esbern! Where were you on the 30th of Frostfall?"

The commotion stopped, for good this time. All of a sudden Jakt heard the familiar ratchet and click of locks turning. This continued for about a minute before the door finally swung open.

In the doorway stood a lanky old man holding a fire poker. He was tall, taller than Jakt, with wide shoulders, skinny wrists and a surprisingly lithe body. His face was weather-beaten and wrinkled, decorated by a long, unkempt beard and crowned with a shock of chalk-white hair, plastered upright due to the weeks devoid of a wash. From the way he carried himself he looked to be quite spry, despite what Jakt could only assume was extreme age.

"Couldn't find my damn sword," he grumbled when he noticed Jakt eyeing the poker warily. He dropped it and beckoned him forward.

"What in Oblivion are you waiting for? And you, spellslinger! Get your arses in here!"

Jakt turned to see Lysana looking bemused. Brynjolf had apparently slipped off. She shrugged and followed him inside.

"Now, who are you and what do you want? Are you Blades? Last I heard, they were all dead." Esbern had a hoarse, cranky voice that befit his age, but a surprisingly manic energy about him. He immediately set about scratching his way through the fantastic mess that made up his hideout. The small, well-lit room was chock full of all sorts of odds and ends - books and papers made up most of the clutter, but potions, alchemical ingredients, bottles of liquor, what looked like animal bones, porcelain utensils, a couple of daggers, a large stuffed goose draped with jewelry, and two sleeping cats also filled the space.

"What happened on the 30th of Frostfall?" Lysana asked, apparently curious.

"That's when it all fell apart, girl," Esbern said dismissively, not bothering to look up.

"Delphine sent us," Jakt said, exchanging a frown with Lysana as Esbern continued to sift through his accumulated refuse, "My name's Jakt, and this is Lysana. She thinks you can help us?"

"Good, good," he said, grunting as he lifted a small cauldron and threw it on the bed, causing one of the cats to hiss and spit as it jumped out of the way, "How is the old bird? Still playing with her sticks?"

"Uh… yes?"

"Best damn swordsman the Blades have ever trained. Well, except for Baurus ap Erhlich, but he died a long time ago. Or maybe Rowena of Kvatch. but she perished on the privy. Strained so hard her heart gave out and her eyeballs burst. No way for a master swordsman to die."

He straightened up. "Too bad Delphine's brain's full of cheese curds. You warriors and your twisted notions of honor. Hah!"

He had finally found what he was looking for - a curved sword almost exactly like Delphine's, if not a few inches longer. He unsheathed it, swung it effortlessly in an arc, then sheathed it again and threw it to Jakt.

"What the-" Jakt said, catching the blade.

"You'll need it more than I, fool," he said, cackling. "Nothing beats an Akiviri Katana in a straight fight. Best damn blade ever forged." He slipped over to a table and grabbed a wavy dagger forged of ebony, sheathed it, and tucked it into his belt. Jakt, unsure of what to do with it, buckled the katana to his back.

"Besides, I have atronachs do the fighting for me these days. Wait until those damn elves get an icy spike up their asses-"

"Elves?" interjected Lysana sharply, "The Thalmor? Have you seen them?"

"Not yet," he barked in reply, "Well, not recently, anyways. But if you two idiots have finally found me then you can bet they'll be close behind. It'll be one for the books - three suicidal fools against a legion of knife-eared sycophants!"

"What are you talking about, old man?" Jakt cut in incredulously, "We need to escape them, not fight them!"

"Oh no," Esbern replied while he buckled on an old leather breastplate, "I'm through running."

"But we need your help against the dragons!"

He stopped and stared at him, narrowing his eyes.

"Don't you know anything?" he said, after a moment. "That's hopeless, that! Dragons have returned, Alduin has returned, the End of the World is Nigh. Normally I'm not one for prophesy, but that one's actually got precedence. The World Eater is back and he hungers, I'm afraid! Nothing anyone can do except wait for the end. What I wouldn't give to see the look on those smug elven bastards' face when-"

"Esbern!" Jakt shouted at him, "I am the Dragonborn!"

He stopped again, narrowed his eyes, and pinched up his nose.

"You're the Dragonborn, you say?" he said, mockingly. "You can kill dragons and eat their souls?"

"Yes," Jakt replied without hesitation, "And use the Thu'um without any training."

"He's telling the truth, you old fool," Lysana interjected quietly. "Delphine will tell you so."

Esbern's face slowly changed from hardened skepticism to one of childish wonder. He immediately stopped buckling on his armor and instead dove towards his bookshelf, grabbing a knapsack from a peg on the wall in order to stuff it with books.

"Could it be so? The Gods damn me to Oblivion," he said to himself, "Dragonborn!"

"What, you believe me now?" Jakt said, surprised that his turnaround was so quick.

"Might as well," Esbern grunted, whipping the knapsack onto his back. "If you aren't, what is there to lose? But if you are..." He let his manic grin finish the sentence for him.

"He's right about the elves," Lysana cut in once more, a note of urgency in her voice, "We need to get going right now."

"Damned youth," Esbern, striding out the door with a sense of newfound purpose, his words echoing down the corridor, "Always trying to hurry us elder folks around-"

Something made him stop mid sentence. Jakt followed him out to where the tunnel opened up into the main room of the vaults. Looking down, he immediately realized why.

Standing below them was a small contingent of Thalmor elves, perhaps nine in all, led by three figures. The elves were all dressed in studded leather - most likely to better fit in with the Riften crowd - and armed with an assortment of steel. Their weapons were all drawn, Jakt realized, and his hopes evaporated away a little more with every naked sword he counted.

The leader of the elves, dressed in simple black robes, stepped forward. He was surprisingly stout for a High Elf, who tended towards the tall and narrow, with silvery-blond hair that he swept back into a ponytail. Jakt recognized the man to his left: it was the big, battle-scarred Nord from the marketplace earlier, dressed in steel and gripping his wicked battleaxe in a casual manner that hinted at disconcerting prowess with the weapon. He wondered briefly why this man had come, and apparently willingly. The third figure was -

"Drake," He heard Lysana gasp. And yet there he was: standing next to the big Nord, looking mighty uncomfortable but very much unbound, his bow in his hand. He had replaced his Thieves Guild armor with more conventional leather fare which fit poorly. Jakt's tongue suddenly felt very dry, his brain trapped in cobwebs, as he tried to process this development. He couldn't believe it - they had traveled together for so long - had Drake sold them out? He must have. Why else would he be here? _Why didn't I see this coming? I knew him. _

_And he knew me._

"Esbern," the elf began, in the customary clipped tones of the Thalmor, "The cornered rat. We have you outnumbered. Come down peacefully and surrender, and we will be... accommodating."

"Ondolemar," Esbern called down, "Finally. It only took your fat arse some thirty years to catch up with me, and that's only because you let two dimwits do it for you. Come up here and get me, you stupid mule!"

"I've been waiting a long time for this," Ondolemar replied, His sharp elven features stretching into a cheshire grin, "They want you alive, you know, but they said nothing about your friends. If you don't surrender, I'll make sure they suffer before they die. Come down now, and their deaths will be swift."

Esbern had sidled up next to Jakt. "Whatever you do, don't let them know who you are," he growled quietly. Jakt barely registered - he was still too busy trying to digest Drake's presence.

"Ah ah, old man!" Ondolemar called up to them, "No whispering your escape! You're out of time. Thief, put an arrow in the Nord's eye."

With some hesitation, Drake notched an arrow to his bow.

"Quintus, you traitorous cow!" Lysana called down to him, her voice breaking halfway through the insult. Jakt looked over to see wetness around her eyes as she stared down at him with a mixture of horror and fury. He was uncomfortably surprised by the depth of her emotion. His eyes shifted to Esbern, expecting to see some similar reaction, only to see that the old Nord just stared down through narrowed eyes, deep in concentration, muttering something under his breath.

"I'm sorry!" Drake yelled up to them, taking aim; it was too dim for Jakt to make out his expression clearly. "But you don't understand who-"

"Enough talk!" roared the big Nord on his right, "Shoot him, you coward!"

Jakt tensed. There wasn't much distance between them - it would be easy for an expert marksman such as Drake. Then several things happened at once.

Drake released the arrow. Jakt didn't have time enough to duck or dodge. Before he could even blink, he felt something whistle past him and slash at his left temple. A portal opened in the middle of the crowd of elves and out stepped a hulking, jagged beast made completely from ice. And a wild man dressed in a bloody apron burst forth from behind a wooden cell door, a rusty meat cleaver in both hands, and yelled with savage frenzy, "I'm going to eat well tonight, my darlings!"

The elves yelled and scattered as the Ice atronach roared - or rather, crackled - its rage at being summoned from its icy plane of existence. The mad cook threw himself on one elf, tackling him to the ground where he tried frantically to pierce her armor with his rusted knives. Feeling blood running down the side of his face but otherwise still very much alive, Jakt gave a roar of his own, aimed for one of the staggering forms below, and threw himself off the raised platform.

Smashing one unfortunate elf to the floor, he righted himself and unsheathed his sword just in time to block the vertical swipe of another Thalmor soldier. He angled his opponent's blade out wide, sweeping it down and out, then lunged forward with his shoulder, driving his large metal pauldron into his assailant's nose. There was a sickening crack, blood spurted forth, and the elf toppled backwards, clawing at her face and yelling. Before Jakt could get in a killing blow, a lightning bolt struck the elf between the eyes and her limbs went haywire as she toppled; he looked up to see Lysana, her index and middle fingers of post hands poised, looking down with exhilaration painted on her face. To her right, Esbern held out his hands, a ward radiating out from each, protecting them from magical harm. In the background, the yells and screams of elves mingled with the frenetic crackle of ice on stone and flesh.

Before he could thank her the big Nord rushed at him, his battleaxe leading. Jakt sidestepped his first vertical swipe, but the man continued in a circle and his axe came back around at a different angle surprisingly quickly, forcing Jakt to pirouette like a dancer in order to avoid the serrated blade. As he whirled he caught a quick glimpse of Drake, sneaking off towards a side tunnel during the commotion.

Jakt cursed him for his cowardice and treachery, parried an overeager swipe from another Altmer who rushed in on his left, forcing the elf off-balance, and then jumped nimbly over the big Nord's battle axe as it hummed in at knee height. The axe buried itself deep in the leg of the overbalanced elf; the ensuing pandemonium gave Jakt a moment to step back and reassess the fight with the big Nord. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the ice atronach stagger under the explosive force of a fireball, while several elves had finally pulled the deranged cook off their counterpart. _We are running out of time._

The scarred man didn't even blink as he yanked his axe free, letting the unfortunate elf collapse to the ground to clutch feebly at his nearly-severed limb. Jakt raised his sword and bent his knees in readiness, hoping that no elves would come to aid him. The axe was a powerful weapon but its only defense was that power: the man knew how to wield it well, but Jakt was fairly sure in a one-on-one fight that he could take advantage of the weapon's weight and size and pierce that defense. But before the scarred nord could engage Jakt once more, Ondolemar appeared at his shoulder.

"Maul," the Altmer said, "Finish off the beast. I'll deal with this one."

Maul nodded wordlessly and turned. Ondolemar whispered a command, and a spectral, serrated blade appeared in his hand. Jakt had seen battlemages fight with bound weaponry before: magical blades summoned from dangerous, otherworldly places, often powerfully enchanted. His stomach clenched.

Ondolemar sprung forward, feinting high. Jakt recognized the feint for what it was and prepared accordingly for a low backhand sweep. The elf was quick, his blade light as air, and when he reversed his swing and cut low instead Jakt just barely managed to parry it. When the blades made contact, Jakt heard the screech of protesting steel and the smell of burnt metal added itself to the rank stench of the vaults. With a deft slice Jakt arced the point of contact out wide and spun himself free, withdrawing to find a scorched black pockmark on his sword.

Ondolemar smiled at this development, the malice in his eyes plain. He rushed forward again, keeping Jakt off balance, forcing him to parry. Jakt was quicker than the elf, but his sword was made of actual steel, and Jakt had to work hard to keep out of its reach. He dodged when he could, but every time he had to block one of Ondolemar's sweeping arcs his sword screeched as if in pain. He took a slash on his right pauldron and felt the sword melt into the steel, and was grateful that it had not met scale or leather. _I need to end this fight soon._

Jakt pushed forward desperately, parrying Ondolemar's next slash close to his hilt and sacrificing his sword's integrity to use force the elf's blade wide. Their blades locked together, down and out, Jakt barreled forward with a snarl, headbutting the surprised elf in the face. Ondolemar gave a cry and staggered backwards. Jakt ignored the ache in his head, disengaged the Altmer's foul weapon and swept his own blade around, homing in on his opponent's exposed neck.

Ondolemar somehow managed to get the bound sword up in time, too late for Jakt to retract his swing. When his weapon hit the elf's own, it screeched one last dreadful time and broke clean in two. The smoking blade portion went careening off into the darkened recesses of the vaults.

Ondolemar laughed triumphantly and darted forward. Jakt threw himself backwards to avoid his next slash, losing his balance and crashing onto his rear, the broken hilt of his old sword still in hand. Still laughing, the elf pressed forward again, prepared for the killing blow. Out of options, Jakt opened his mouth.

"_YOL!"_

Ondolemar's laughter turned to screams as a gout of flame poured forth from Jakt's maw. The elf patted frantically at his clothing and shrieked, turned to spot a stagnant pool and rushed towards it. Jakt staggered upright just in time to see the ice atronach collapsing to pieces under the combined attack of the remaining combatants, while more Thalmor reinforcements streamed into the room. Ondolemar threw himself in the pool and rolled until had extinguished the flames, and a couple of Thalmor rushed over to help him. In a moment they would run towards him as well, and the intent would not be as friendly.

Jakt took a deep breath and looked at the broken sword in his hand. Suddenly he felt a hand clutch his arm: it was Lysana, her eyes and hair wild, supporting a wincing Esbern who clutched at a scorch mark on his side.

"You are some kind of beautiful idiot, you know that?" She said, smiling and shaking her head with admiration.

"Side tunnels!" Esbern barked, "I know a way out! You, oaf, come support me! Nice shout by the way, though know they'll know who you are, oh well. Witch, leave them something to chew on!"

Lysana transferred Esbern to Jakt's shoulder then quickly summoned her own atronach, one of her favored fire demons. The beautiful form spun a delicate circle, cooed, and slung a fireball into the crowd of Thalmor, who had just finished with the ice atronach and were starting to regroup. Not waiting to watch the fight, Jakt hurried them towards the nearest side tunnel entranceway.

"Always… build yourself a back door," panted Esbern, his face contorted in pain. "Good work, girl. Got any other tricks up your sleeve?"

"A few," Lysana retorted, stopping in the narrow tunnel to quickly place a lightning rune trap on one of the walls. Jakt had seen them work before - walk near the rune and get a bolt of lightning up your ass. Esbern managed to pick up the pace a little and they charged onwards.

The corridor twisted and turned, sloping ever so slightly upwards. A sudden shriek and a sizzle told them that the Thalmor weren't far behind. Lysana stopped for a moment to erect some sort of magical barrier. Esbern looked on, impressed.

"Smart," the old man commended her, "Using Lyle's Ward against Physical Damage as a corporeal obstacle. I'm assuming you'll leave it here, but I was under the impression that actual contact by the caster was necessary at all times. How will you maintain it?"

"Same as any other ward," Lysana panted, "Sufficient concentration."

"By the Gods! She's smart!" he said with a hectic grin, "They teach you that here in Skyrim? Winterhold, I assume?"

"Nope. Made it up myself."

"They always were a bunch of elitist blowhards," Esbern laughed. Lysana laughed back.

"Is now really the time for this conversation?" Jakt interrupted irritably. Lysana grinned sheepishly and hurried forward.

"You should rut with her already, lad," Esbern muttered to Jakt's, grinning from ear to ear. "Or have you already? I'd do it myself if I were ten years younger. Been with a couple of sorceresses myself, and boy, let me tell you…"

Jakt could hardly believe what he was hearing. He was about to tell the old man to shut up when he spotted the lone figure in front of them, clutching a familiar curved sword.

It was Drake. The Imperial was standing at the end of the tunnel, which forked in two directions. He hardly cut an imposing sight, his expression nervous and pained.

"Out of my damn way," Jakt growled at him, skidding to a stop, "or I'll shout you to pieces."

"Wait, Jakt!" Drake said frantically, holding up his hand, "I can explain."

"There's nothing to explain-"

"It's Maven!" he interrupted, his voice borderline hysterical, "She wants you gone, and you don't - I can't - you've got no idea what she has on me!"

"If you mean what you say, boy, throw down your sword," Esbern said, rolling his eyes. Drake obeyed, sending his sword clattering to the floor.

"Perfect," Esbern continued, "Now gut him. Gets them every time."

"Wait!" Drake said as Jakt moved forward, gesturing the sufficiently-sharp point of his broken blade. He stopped himself, somehow.

"You sold us out," Lysana said, coldly.

"Sold you out? What are you saying? I saved Jakt's life!"

"What?"

"I missed!" the Imperial was clearly grasping at straws. "Just then! On purpose! And I didn't sell you out at the party, I swear! I thought you were both either captured or dead!"

"So you abandoned us," Jakt said accusingly.

"I couldn't come after you! I ran into Maven at the party - she recognized me immediately, threatened to expose me unless I did what she said! She's working with the Thalmor - she's invested heavily in them - and she controls the Thieves Guild!"

"Shit," said Lysana, frowning, "I _knew_ finding Esbern was too easy. Jakt, think about it, it must have been a trap! They were onto us as soon as we got to Riften. I can't believe I'm saying this, but it probably wasn't his fault."

Jakt shook his head, his mind made up on the subject. "I don't care. Drake, get out of here. I can't trust you. Not that I ever could, or should have."

"I have… a better idea," Lysana said, her voice faltering. He turned to face her. Esbern leaned up against the wall, looking bored with all the drama.

"The barrier won't… hold forever." Her face was strained: Jakt realized that it was probably due to the effort of keeping her ward active. "We need to split up. Drake and I will draw them off your path. You take Esbern and find the exit."

"No," Jakt said, "Absolutely not."

"Lad," Esbern began, speaking seriously and with a hint of sorrow for perhaps the first time since Jakt had met him, "She's right. They won't stop until they think they've got us. At least this way some of us might escape. Any good with illusions, girl?"

"Good enough."

"Lysana-"

"Shut up, Jakt," she said, looking him in the face. "We'll buy you some time. And I'll see you…" she took a breath and screwed up her eyes, panting with concentration. "I'll see you back at the Sleeping Giant Inn."

"I'll get her there," Drake interjected, but Jakt didn't bother to look at him. He found her hand and gave it a squeeze. She squeezed back and smiled at him. Then, she whispered something, and all of a sudden he was looking back at himself standing where Lysana had stood.

"Go on," came Lysana's voice from his lips. He had made up his mind to pull her close and kiss her but the effect of the illusion was too disconcerting. He looked over her shoulder to see another Esbern, standing upright, gaping in a very uncharacteristic way. The real Esbern at his side began to cackle, but stopped abruptly respectfully when he remembered the serious nature of their parting.

Without a word Jakt turned and led the old man down the corridor as it wound its way upwards, resisting the urge to look back. He heard the clatter of boots on stone, the shouts of the pursuing elves, and had to close his eyes and force every step forward in order to press on. Esbern guided him forward, slowly but surely. When he opened them again, he could make out a pinprick of sunlight in the distance. Jakt tasted something salty on his lips and only then realized that his cheeks were wet.

* * *

A/N: Lots of cameos in this chapter! The first act of this piece is rapidly drawing to a close - I anticipate it growing more expansive and complicated, so I'll try my best to keep it streamlined. One of the challenges of writing Skyrim so far is giving its existing characters a little depth. In the case of Esbern, it was actually pretty easy and fun! Anyways, stay tuned.


	8. The Oath

Jakt staggered into the ominous entranceway to the caverns of Karthspire, gritting his teeth and clutching at the nasty cut on his bare upper arm where the jagged Forsworn axe had lacerated his skin and bit deep into the muscle. Esbern, cursing like a drunken sailor, stood just ahead of him, doubled over. Behind him he heard the deadly hum of an impossibly sharp blade, followed by the telltale tumble and plop of a head severed from its body. Delphine limped in, her sword and armor coated with fresh blood, cold fury in her eyes.

"Two fucking dragons!" Esbern panted, "Not to mention a small army of Forsworn. You have shit for luck, my young friend!"

"At least the pandemonium helped distract them." Jakt grunted reply, rummaging around in his pouch for a small vial of healing elixir. "Better to flee from dragons than fight a swarm of bloodthirsty savages."

He uncorked the rough-cut glass vessel and brought it to his lips. It tasted sour and unpleasant, burning his throat as it went down. He drank three quarters of it and poured the rest onto his open wound; the flesh sizzled and contracted. It felt as though someone was pouring molten metal into the cut and Jakt had to clench his jaw to avoid screaming in agony. After a moment the pain subsided and the ravaged muscle felt whole once more: he looked down to see an uneven scar, bright red and inflamed.

The Forsworn proved to be tenacious and unpredictable foes. What they lacked in training, armor and equipment they made up in ferocity, guerilla tactics, and their occultish wizardry. They had little regard for their own lives and a surprising number of them maintained their homicidal fixations on the three interlopers even under threat from the two flying, fire-breathing lizards.

As for the dragons, Jakt wondered why they had appeared then and there. It seemed this Alduin - the dragon that Esbern blamed for Skyrim's predicament - had other matters to take care of, dispatching two of his younger brethren to deal with the Dragonborn. As dragon attacks go, it turned out to be a fortuitous one, as the Forsworn with an inkling of sense had banded together to drive off the beasts, allowing Jakt, Delphine and Esbern to slip through the large camp situated near Karthspire with, if not minimal, then certainly reduced resistance. From outside the cave he could still hear the keening roars of the dragons overhead, the shouts and screams of men, and the crackle of burning wood. Not to mention the smell of burnt flesh.

He shook his head to clear the haze caused by the potion. Delphine had moved ahead of him, peering down into the cavern, a twisted passageway cut into the mountain. There was light ahead, emanating from wall sconces.

"We aren't alone," she growled.

Jakt wiped the residual blood off his arm and stretched it. The scar throbbed but otherwise his arm felt great. _When I have a moment I need to do something about upper arm protection, _he reminded himself_. _

Wiping his matted, sweaty hair out from his eyes, he hoisted Esbern's old katana up in a ready stance, mimicking Delphine. They padded down the tunnel, Esbern creaking close behind them. It opened out into a large room, decorated in the typical Forsworn fashion, all manner of pelts, bones and feathers arranged into distinct tribal totems. Torches illuminated the room, and strewn about were bedrolls, food remains, and an assortment of nasty-looking weapons made of wood and bone.

A large slab of basalt lay in the middle of the room, around which a half-dozen Forsworn huddled, chanting slowly. Jakt could barely make out a prone figure on the altar. At the head of the altar, standing taller than any man, was a hideous creature. It was humanoid, with the appearance of a lanky, shriveled old woman, but its hooked nose, jet black eyes and twitchy face struck Jakt as eerily birdlike. The old crone had long, curved nails that looked like talons, and he was pretty sure he could make out feathers sprouting from her elbows.

She must have sensed his gaze, for she looked up from the bizarre ceremony and met his eyes. She tilted her head sideways at him, then rose one of her fingers and shrieked.

"Shit," Delphine groaned.

The Forsworn scattered, leaving the prone human form on the alter. With the rest of them out of the way, Jakt identified the figure as a man lying on his back, dressed like one of the Forsworn, with a bloody chest. The bird woman retreated to a safe distance and began to shriek commands in their tongue. The other Forsworn - Jakt counted seven in all, dressed in their ornate, makeshift armor of hide and bone - ran towards them, brandishing their weapons and screeching indecipherably.

"Esbern!" shouted Delphine over the din, bracing herself, "Take out the archer in the corner!"

"I'm too old to be crawling around in caves killing wildmen!" Esbern yowled, conjuring up a ward with one hand and summoning a bolt of lightning in the other. And then the horde was upon them.

Jakt caught a glimpse of Delphine cutting a deadly swath through her assailants just as the first Witch-man of the Reach in the queue lunged towards him. He held a bony axe in either hand, crude weapons that were no match for the quicksilver-tempered steel of his katana. He parried the man's first frenzied swing with a vicious chop, sending half of the weapon whizzing away; nimbly dodging the man's poorly timed swing with the other axe, Jakt maneuvered his sword around and opened up a curved gash in his opponent's belly with a swift arc, then lashed out with a foot to send the man stumbling into one of his comrades.

Two more came at him, a man and a woman. He opened his mouth and shouted the man to the floor. The woman came on, a rusty iron sword leading her charge. Jakt spun away from her jab and brought the katana down in a flashing arc, taking the woman's arm off at the elbow. She howled and staggered, newly crippled, and Jakt slashed a diagonal red line across her chest then moved on to his next target.

He saw Delphine bury her sword between one man's eyes, nearly cleaving his head in two. To her consternation, the blade stuck fast in his skull, and she was forced to relinquish it in order to dodge a swipe from another Forsworn. Jakt turned back to see the man he'd shouted to the floor springing forward, murder on his lips and in his eyes. He parried the Forsworn's ragged sword, locking the hilts of their blades together at eye contact. Lashing out with the pommel of his katana, he caught the man squarely in the eye. He broke the sword lock to stagger back, blinking furiously, giving Jakt a chance to whip his blade around and decapitate him, the thin, sharp blade humming in neatly between the vertebrae of the unfortunate man's neck.

Forcing down the bile in his throat, he turned away to avoid watching the man's body crumple and bounded over to help Delphine. Weaponless, she backpedaled furiously to avoid her attacker, a quick, a spunky Forsworn woman with a bone sword and long hair that descended in a braid from behind an elaborate feathered headdress that masked her face. Jakt closed the gap and yelled furiously, catching the tribal's attention and sending her scrambling out of his way with a furious swipe, giving Delphine a chance to try and dislodge her sword in the process.

The Forsworn girl was nimble and clever. Instead of trying to parry, she dipped away from his every swipe, knowing full well that her ragged blade could not hope to match up against his. Jakt played it careful and safe, pushing her back towards the wall of the cavern with a series of surgical slashes, expecting Delphine to rush over and help him finish the fight with ease. Then a birdlike shriek split the air, followed by a stream of colorful curses in Esbern's voice, and Jakt got the feeling her attention was needed elsewhere. He chanced a look over his shoulder to see Esbern throw himself out of the way of the bird-woman's razor-sharp talons.

Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, the girl suddenly sprung forward, having produced a steel dagger from who-knows-where, danced past his hasty reactionary swipe and buried it in his side.

Jakt felt the tip slide through a crease in his scaled jerkin to prick at his skin and instinctively lashed out with his left arm, catching her neatly in the cheek with a hardened leather bracer. She cried and lurched into a wooden stump, tumbling to the floor, taking the dagger with her before it could bury itself deep into his abdomen. He lashed out with his foot, kicking her gnarled sword far out of her reach. She scrambled to retrieve the knife but once again his foot reached the weapon before she did, sending it spinning into a dark corner. With nowhere else to turn, she skittered backwards into the wall on all fours and lay there, panting, a cornered animal. Her headdress, loosened by the blow to her head, had fallen off completely in the struggle. Jakt didn't get a good look at her face until he had leveled his katana to strike.

It was Lysana.

He swore loudly and lurched backwards, nearly dropping his sword, holding his free hand to his head. _It can't be, _he thought to himself, and when he looked back down at her, he was right. His mind had been playing tricks on him.

The resemblance, however, was tangible. She looked to be of Breton blood, red-haired and freckled, although perhaps with more than just a hint of the elvish ancestry that granted the Bretons their svelte, angular features. The girl could not have seen more than sixteen or seventeen winters, but her body looked supple and strong: the Forsworn, he'd noticed, did not much care to cover their entire bodies with garments. She had chocolate brown eyes and hair that was tangled and unkempt like a bush full of brambles. Jakt surmised it might descend past her waist if unbraided.

"Kill me, swine!" she said in accented common, staring up defiantly into his face, "I'd rather die than look upon you further!"

Yet the tears that pooled under her eyes and the tremor in her voice betrayed her fear. Jakt sighed and straightened, let his sword drop to his side. He could not kill one so young and defenseless.

"What are you d-doing?" she sobbed, "Show me no mercy!"

"Whats this?" Esbern croaked conversationally as he strolled up to stand beside him, "A Forsworn cub, is it?"

Bits of feather clung to his hands and arms, and Jakt could see longer, complete specimens peeking out of his pockets. Jakt's confusion must have registered on his face.

"What?"

"Feathers?"

"Don't you know anything?" Esbern snorted and shook his head, dislodging the feathery fluff from his hair. "Hagraven feathers have many valuable alchemical prop-"

"You k-k-killed them!" the girl interrupted, her tears starting to smudge the fierce warpaint that covered most of her face, "My b-b-brothers and sisters!"

"They would have killed us, girl," came Delphine's harsh reply as she appeared at Jakt's shoulder. She accentuated her words with by sliding her blade home into its scabbard with a loud _shhhnnk_. She turned to Jakt and looked at him with her cold, calm gaze. "Kill the girl and be done with it. Or let her flee, it matters not. I'm going further down into the cave. You two can catch up." She turned away and stalked off in the direction of another exit, beyond the altar.

"Don't mind her, lad," Esbern said, shaking his head with a grimace, "She gets upset whenever she does poorly in a fight. Even master swordsmen can be so childlike sometimes!"

He started to laugh, but the sobs of the girl caused him to falter. Jakt saw a brief flash of what looked eerily like concern on the old man's face.

"Girl," Jakt said firmly, "Girl!"

She looked up at him, pouting.

"Who are you? Why did you attack us?"

"You Nords don't speak my tongue," she spat, "And you're too stupid to understand anyways."

Esbern shook his head and uttered something in a strange language. It sounded like elvish, except more guttural. Jakt was confused, but not nearly so much as the girl. She responded hesitantly in kind, and Jakt didn't need to be a linguist to know that her grasp of the tongue was not as good as Esbern's.

"Speak in common, child," Esbern said gently, with a touch of sadness, "It was your first tongue, was it not?"

She didn't reply, only wiping the tears from her face. Jakt offered her his hand, but she ignored it and stood up.

"I am Esbern," he continued, "and this is Jakt."

"Who do you serve?" she asked suspiciously. "Why did you come here and lay siege to our home?"

Jakt kept his sword hanging limp, but took care to show he had no intention of sheathing it, lest she try anything.

"We are our own masters. And you attacked _us_," Jakt replied angrily, "You did not even reply to our peaceful hail before you loosed your arrows."

The girl took a step forward and gazed defiantly up at him. She wasn't very pretty in the classical fashion, but there was a fierce untamed beauty in her unkempt face and fiery spirit, juxtaposed by her soft brown eyes. He wondered if all Bretons resembled Lysana as she did, or if the exhausted, grief-stricken portion of Jakt's mind was slipping through the cracks in his mental fortress to wreak havoc on his sanity.

"In the tongue of the reachmen I am Gwynlach," she spoke at last.

"Shimmering Lake," Esbern translated, "pretty name for a pretty lass."

"How came you to speak the tongue?" Gwynlach turned her pointed gaze to the old Nord.

He gave a chuckle. "I used to play poker with a friend of your people. Went by the name of Madanach, last I knew him," the old man smiled cryptically.

Gwynlach's sharp intake sounded like the hiss of a snake. Obviously the name held some significance, although neither bothered to explain to Jakt.

"Course, that was many years ago," Esbern began. Jakt resisted the urge to groan, recognizing when the old man was on the brink of beginning a story. "We both spent a long stint together in prison, both for crimes we didn't commit. Had to learn to communicate in a way that the guards wouldn't understand us, so he taught me your language."

Esbern's face broke out into a big grin. "Eventually Madanach's buddies sprung him, of course, and he decided to take me with him. His friends didn't much like Nords though, so they threatened to leave old Madanach penniless in a ditch and me swinging by a rope if I didn't clear out."

He paused for a moment to scratch his head. "Never forget what he said to me, he said, 'Esbern old chap, I like ye, but ye're a Nord and I'm a man o' the Reach, and I'd sooner piss on yer grave than give up the good fight.' Good man, though. Gave me a chance to walk away when many would've shrugged and looked askance while his friends picked my corpse clean. Of course, I did spend about four years losing imaginary fortunes to him."

Jakt shook his head. The road to the Reach had been long, and Jakt had heard many of Esbern's stories. Every time, he got the feeling that the old man was pulling his leg. This story was no exception.

Gwynlach smiled, wiping the last remnants of her tears from her eyes. She turned back to Jakt, her stare different now, less venomous.

"I'm gonna go catch up with Delphine, boy," Esbern said, turning around and stalking off without a backwards glance, "You kids play at being nice."

"Get out of here," Jakt ordered in a low, dangerous voice once his footsteps had faded, "And tell your kin to be more discerning about who they attack. They might end up starting something they can't finish."

The girl did not leave, instead stepped forward slowly until she was standing very close to him. His naked sword, limp at his side, came to rest ever so slightly against her outer thigh, itself bare due to a high-cut slit in her furred, knee-length skirt.

"The Forsworn value strength and tenacity above all," she said softly, "virtues that you must prove to deserve our favor."

She laid a wide palm on his chest, slowly stroking the scales of his jerkin as she traced her way down towards his belt. Jakt suddenly became uncomfortably aware of a large, scratchy lump beneath his trousers.

"What are you doing?"

The girl looked up into his face. "We Forsworn have been plundered and looted for so long, all we know how to do is plunder and loot," she said, and the pride in her voice was tempered by a hint of sorrow.

"You killed my man, Jakt the Swift," Gwynlach continued, her doe eyes deep and shiny in the flickering torchlight. "His severed head lies here in this room. But tooth and claw is the way of nature, and nature is the way of the Forsworn. I am yours to plunder now."

Jakt sucked in his breath, far more aroused than he ought to be. He placed a hand on her shoulder to push her away but she brushed it off, leaning in closer and rubbing her pelvis against his.

"I can feel you, Jakt the fleet," she whispered into his ear, "You want this, Jakt the Powerful."

He grabbed her, wrapping his arms around her, cinching them at her waist. She exhaled softly, hungrily, biting her lip as she reached up to take his face gently in her hands. _It has been so long…_

"Take what is yours… Jakt the Killer," Gwynlach whispered and pulled his face close.

The next thing he knew she was on the floor. Jakt stood over her, fury flowing through his veins, his outstretched fist shaking.

"Jakt the _Murderer_," she spat, rubbing her back and wincing, "Jakt the Slayer of women and children!"

"Get OUT!" he roared, pointing towards the exit. Gwynlach sprung to her feet, meeting his gaze defiantly.

"I know what it is you seek," she sneered, "The mountain temple. It will not open for you, unworthy dog. And even if it does, we will be neighbors."

She smiled nastily. "And I'll be back for you, Jakt the Butcher."

And then she was gone.

Jakt resisted the urge to scream in frustration. His mind was a jumble, his manhood screamed for emancipation, and his heart thumped away at his ribs, trying to break free of his chest. _She's right, _he thought to himself, looking around the room at the fresh corpses. _I am a killer. A mercenary to the core, capable of only violence and destruction. It is all I have known. There is no denying what I am. _

He staggered over to the only remaining structure in the room, the gigantic slab of rock that served as an altar. He was about to lean on it, just to catch his breath for a moment, but then truly he realized what lay atop it.

It was a Forsworn man, covered in blood: his own blood. There was a hole right above his left nipple. And where his heart should have been was some sort of fruit or berry. It had a hard bristly shell, and constricted regularly, much like the heart in Jakt's chest albeit far weaker. The ritual evidently hadn't been completed - Jakt, Delphine and Esbern had unwittingly seen to that - but traces of life in the body still remained. The man's fingers spasmed and his eyelids flickered, motions so slight that he hadn't noticed them in the heat of the skirmish.

Jakt brought his sword up and swung it down in an arc, severing the man's head. The blade crunched against the hard basalt, leaving the head still partially attached, but he did not care: the macabre corpse had stopped its death spasms. He lifted the blade clear to find it coated not only with blood, but a sticky, lime-green substance that seemed to radiate an inner light. He shuddered, wiped the blade on a nearby totem, then strode down the tunnel and deeper into the cavern.

* * *

"Well, boy? Did you rut with her then?"

"Why are you so concerned with my sex life, Esbern?" Jakt asked irritably. He did not relish the thought of cohabitating with the Forsworn in the wilds of the Reach, for the events of the day had badly shaken him. With his mind turning circles, he found could hardly stand to be in the company of this obscene, cantankerous old man, not to mention his surly, grim understudy. Delphine stalked around the gigantic arched doorway, muttering to herself.

They were in what Jakt reasoned to be the entranceway to Sky Haven Temple, which according to Esbern was the ancient keep of Skyrim's Akiviri invaders and also once served as the headquarters for her Blade agents. The cavern was enormous, and surprisingly well-lit: sunlight streamed in from a large crack in the earth a hundred feet above. Dominating the wall before them was a stone doorway, arched and spired, carved with the image of two crossed Akiviri katanas. In the middle of the room, a stone's throw from the doorway, was a series of concentric circles, each buried a little deeper into the stone as they moved towards the epicenter. Upon closer inspection the circles were made up of little channels, all descending towards the lowest point.

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" Esbern responded indignantly, "I'm looking after your mental well being! A man goes crazy if he goes too long without a good screw! Although it's twice as bad for women, you know, as Delphine can attest."

"Shut your damn mouth, old man," the woman growled, not bothering to look back at him as she prowled around the door.

"In any case," he continued, "You're the Dragonborn! You have a prerogative to remain sane, boy. So you really ought to get plugging."

Jakt laughed at that and shrugged his shoulders. "She wanted to, I think, or she certainly acted like it. Although I also think she wanted to stick her knife in my back during the process."

"Women are like that," Esbern responded sagely. "Especially girls like 'Gwynlach.' Hah! Ridiculous name. She probably chose it for herself."

"What do you mean?"

Esbern paused. "The Forsworn act like savages, because it helps keep them unpredictable. Once she regained her wits she probably sought to keep you off-balance."

"She bloody well succeeded," Jakt muttered, "What did you mean about her name?"

"Take it with a grain of salt, boy. You hear how she spoke their language? Rather poorly. I'd bet my britches that girl was born in Markarth. Probably took the name when she left. Young people and their ideals. Hah!"

Jakt frowned. He didn't like the idea of her pretending to want him, but he chalked that up to male ego. "So are you saying she chose that life, with the Forsworn?"

Esbern shrugged. "Either she ran away or she was kidnapped and brainwashed. I've known those stupid enough to join their ranks voluntarily, but she seemed cleverer than that. Or maybe it was just the fire of youth."

Jakt raised an eyebrow. "What about your story, about the supposed goodly Madanach? Was he stupid?"

"Some of that was true," he admitted, "Madanach was a rat bastard though. Never served jail time he didn't deserve. But the Forsworn, they worship him, and he knows it. Call him the King in Rags. Or used to, it's been years since I've been this way through the Reach. For all I know he's long dead."

"Why'd you tell it to her, then?"

Esbern paused. "Didn't want her to keep crying anymore, I suppose."

Jakt looked at him. Once again there was a flicker of sadness in the old man's eyes. Suddenly it struck him how much Esbern had endured - and Delphine as well, for that matter. Hunted by the Thalmor for thirty years, scraping by in the shadows, living so long in the dark that the light seemed ingenuine, even treacherous. His capricious nature probably had developed as a coping mechanism.

"How do we open this door?" Jakt asked, changing the subject. He had a million other questions he wanted to ask the man - he was surprised how willing he was to help sort out Jakt's issues and qualms - but decided to give him a break. Anyways, Jakt had delved into enough complex emotional territory to tide him over for a long while yet.

Esbern jerked out of some memory. "Oh! Easy. It's a blood seal. Go drip some of your blood into the center of that circle there."

"What? Why my blood?"

Esbern grinned. "Only opens for one of royal blood. Or the Blood of the Dragon, as it were. The Akiviri loved that kind of horseshit."

Jakt shook his head and walked over to the seal. He pricked his thumb on his dagger, ignoring the brief flash of pain, and held it over the middle of the seal. His own blood rolled off his thumb and dripped into the circle with a tiny plop.

Nothing happened for a moment, but then the grinding sound of stone against stone rumbled through the air. Delphine jumped back, gasping, from where she had her ear up against the wall.

The stone barrier split down the middle and scraped apart to reveal a much smaller entranceway, wide enough for two men to walk side-by side. Jakt could make out steps going up. Delphine strode towards them, her face lit with wonder.

"How did you open it?"

"Blood seal," Esbern explained, "All it took was a little of Jakt's blood."

Delphine's face changed to one of consternation. "You knew that?"

Esbern nodded. "Of course. Been here before, many times, actually. Never got it to open. Tried all sorts of blood-"

Delphine cut him off, fixing him with an angry glare. "Why in Oblivion didn't you have him open it earlier?!"

"We were in the middle of an important conversation." Esbern replied with an air of indignance. "You shouldn't rush your elders, good woman. And also, I was quite enjoying watching you bang your head against the stone."

For a minute Delphine looked like she was about to explode. Then she took a deep breath, steadied herself, and started to laugh.

After a moment Esbern started to laugh too. Then Delphine's laughter turned to tears and she was sobbing. Esbern wrapped her in a fatherly hug. Jakt soon realized that Delphine was crying out of relief.

"Can you believe it, Esbern?" she asked, wiping her eyes, "Sky Haven Temple!"

"It's hard to believe," he answered her, "But its true." His voice was unusually somber.

The entire spectacle made Jakt feel very uncomfortable. Then again, he could hardly imagine what this meant for Delphine: it must be like watching the sun break across the horizon after a cold night that had lasted for years.

They traipsed up the steps into the musty, dark temple. Esbern summoned a spell of magelight to guide them. It was constructed in the elegant Akiviri style, with arched spires atop pillars, solid stone walls decorated with sweeping carved reliefs. There were more modern touches as well: installations made by the Blades, Esbern explained, that had turned the temple into more of a fortress or outpost. Despite its grand architecture, there was a distinct melancholia that hung about in the air. The twilight hour of the Blades had never seemed so definite.

The main hall held a long table of petrified wood and a great stone firepit. Dominating an entire wall of the chamber was a massive carved relief, partially obscured with the thick dust that coated the entire temple. At the other end was a winding staircase that, judging by the telltale whistle of the breeze down the corridor, led to an exit atop the mountain. Jakt could make out further arched doorways that led to a communal bedroom, as well as a storeroom, an armory and a forge. The slab of carved rock, however, demanded his immediate attention.. He could dimly recognize the form of an enormous carved dragon that neatly split the slab down the middle, but the rest of it was too dusty to make out.

"Esbern," said Delphine as she walked over to stand beside Jakt, "I think this is what you were looking for. Alduin's Wall."

"It can wait," Esbern's voice rang across the hall. In his right hand he held a naked katana, in the other a great musty tomb. His face was furrowed, stonelike, and he was poised like a nobleman, his back straight as a rod.

"Before we proceed, Jakt," he commanded, "You must take the Oath. Take the Ember Covenant, and join our ranks."

Delphine clicked her teeth impatiently. "Is this really necessary, Esbern? That clause is thousands of years old."

"Of course it is," Esbern snapped, losing some of his regal aplomb, "And I mean to have you take it as well. The Akiviri Dragonguard made this pact with Reman Cyrodil during the second age, thereby becoming the first of the Blades. Our purpose may have warped throughout time, but that oath ignited our flame. At our core we remain the Dragonguard, slayers of the _Dov_, and dragonslayers are what Tamriel needs. Not silly little spies who get killed themselves killed by elves."

Delphine rolled her eyes. "Get this over and done with, Jakt, or else he'll talk us both into early graves."

"Kneel," commanded Esbern. Jakt knelt.

He handed Jakt the musty old book, already open to a specific page.

"Read."

Jakt squinted to make out the words in the half-light.

"With my life I pledge to rid Tamriel of Dragons, and to protect her people from danger. I renounce all my worldly possessions, all trades and titles of my former life, that might keep me from my duty. I devote myself to my knight brothers and knight sisters, and honor their lives and the lives of the many above that of my own. Let this oath bind me and keep me, until my blade has hummed its final song, and death welcomes me into the embrace of the earth."

"By my right as acting Grandmaster," Esbern replied, touching the katana to both of Jakt's shoulders, "I name you Knight Brother. Rise, Blade."

Jakt rose. His head pounded and his heart swelled. In the back of his mind, however, a little voice whispered unspoken doubts. _A new purpose? Or yet another oath waiting to be broken?_

He shook his head to clear the cobwebs and smiled widely. Esbern looked at him with a bemused expression.

"Well go on then, boy," he said impatiently, "Delphine's turn now. Chop chop, out of the way.."

* * *

"Right then," Esbern said as they sat around the table, "As my first and last edict as Acting Grandmaster of the Blades, I name Delphine Grandmaster of the Blades."

Delphine finished chewing the mouthful of goat, raised her mug, and slammed it back on the table.

"You are relieved, Knight Brother. Huzzah!" she cried, and she and Jakt broke into laughter. Esbern looked nonplussed.

"It makes sense," he said, "I may be the ranking agent by experience but I'm not going to be going to fight any dragons anytime soon." He pointed to Alduin's Wall off in the corner, still untouched. "That thing needs excavation and care, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let either of you two barbarians near it."

Jakt felt good for the first time in a long time. A warm fire blazed, freshly cooked meat smoldered on the table, and they were safely tucked away in an ancient fortress, away from the prying eyes of his increasingly long list of enemies.

"We're going to need more Blades," Delphine said after a moment, "Dragon hunting is no feat for just the two of us."

"Where will we find those brave or stupid enough?" Jakt asked, trying not to sound too cynical.

"Oh, that'll be easy," Esbern replied, "You seem to attract all manner of talented misfits. All you have to do - oh… sorry, lad."

The sudden stab of pain Jakt felt in his stomach must have made its way to his face. They had waited at the Sleeping Giant Inn for Lysana for far longer than they should have, but she had never appeared. Finally, Delphine commanded him to go, Esbern reluctantly agreeing that it was best to keep moving. He'd followed them wordlessly, thoughtlessly, without complaint or judgement: they were looking out for his life, but also for themselves.

Being on the move did not allow time for grief, however, so Jakt repressed his worries. He did a competent job of it, but occasionally the anguish and worry poked through. He missed her, and he knew not exactly why: she had been so… difficult.

_Do not give yourself hope,_ the cynical part of his brain hissed, _and you will not be disappointed._

"I have a question for you, Jakt," Delphine asked after a long moment. It was always strange when she used his name, for it suggested familiarity and warmth, things that Delphine had thus far only demonstrated to Esbern. Of course, that only happened when he wasn't getting on her nerves, which was most of the time.

"Why did you spare the Forsworn girl?"

Jakt huffed: another subject he had no desire to think about. He answered her, however, because she rarely asked him anything, and he wanted to bury his thoughts of Lysana.

"She was defenseless," he replied, trying to keep the irritation in his voice to a minimum, "and I'm not an executioner."

Delphine nodded. "Honor and mercy, then. Admirable, if naive."

"What would you have done?" he replied, unable to stop himself, "Slashed her throat while she lay, thereby sparing yourself a future nuisance?"

Delphine inclined her head, frowning, but she did not respond. Jakt swallowed and forged ahead. "You did what you had to, as a Blade, and I respect that. But it made you a merciless, calculated killer, and I won't be privy to that any longer."

He expected her to retort in a similar manner, but she didn't answer, only looked back at him with a tired, sad look, as if to say, _you know not what you ask_. Esbern took the opportunity to speak.

"It doesn't matter what she would have done, Jakt, but what she will do in the future. That life is over for us - no longer will we do what it takes to survive. It is no longer necessary."

He smiled and continued. "We have the opportunity to forge the Blades anew, to recapture some portion of the glory and purpose that they have not known for a long time. What came before no longer matters, for we three are all that remain, and we can choose to forget the years of darkness.

He stood and leaned over the table, staring deep into Jakt's eyes with a composed, serious expression.

"Delphine will be the arm that wields the sword, and I the brain that advises us, but _you _must serve as our heart. _You _can make the Blades into a force for justice, with the capacity of mercy in the face of spite. I suspect it is something that you crave."

Jakt nodded slowly. As usual, Esbern, for all his eccentricities, was spot on. _The Blades will be different now._

All his life he had fought for survival or on behalf of some other. He'd done plenty of things of which he was ashamed, sometimes only to guarantee a meal at the end of a long, tiresome day. The way of battle was all Jakt had known: he waged it well, but never on his own behalf, or on his own terms. Now he had something to fight for.

For the good of Skyrim, his homeland new and old, holding up her head with pride as she bled internally, and for her people, just as stricken, stubborn and stoic as she.

_Everything will be different now._

* * *

Wilhelm the barkeep finally had a chance to rest his sore feet after the evening rush when two hooded strangers slumped into the Vilemyr Inn. Situated in Ivarstead, she was a sleepy little hole in the wall, equipped to handle at most the occasional group of pilgrims headed to High Hrothgar, or perhaps the odd wandering merchant caravan taking the road less traveled from Whiterun to Riften. Most of his customers were regulars - his neighbors, the townsfolk - so foreign faces always stood out. He always made sure to adopt a welcome air, secure in the knowledge that each and every one of his patrons would leap willingly to his defense should the situation call for it.

The pair sidled over to the bar, their cloaks whitened with snow: winter was on its way, after all, and the first few flurries would soon give way to thick, merciless snowstorms. They stood out even before they lowered their hoods: one dressed in dark, patchwork leather, the other in torn grey robes. When they finally revealed their faces, Wilhelm swallowed. They looked like vagabonds. Ivarstead did not react well to troublemakers, preferring its peace and quiet.

One, an Imperial man, swarthy and handsome with curly black hair cascading to his shoulders, ordered them drinks: Black-Briar mead for him, Colovian Brandy for the lass. He unbuckled his weapons - a pretty gilded sword and a plain, practical shortbow - when prompted and with cheerful understanding. The lady in question was a Breton, young and pretty and petite; she had green eyes, red hair and distinctive freckles. She was unarmed, swaddled in robes, and looked quite pale and clammy - not just from the cold, it looked.

After they had sipped their drinks for a moment, Wilhelm asked them their business. He did not expect them to respond truthfully, just wanted to get a more accurate sense of who they were.

"We seek a friend," the woman was the first to respond. She did so quietly.

"Perhaps you can help us," the imperial interjected. His voice was loud and confident.

"Strangers are a rare sight in Ivarstead," Wilhelm grunted, reluctant to get involved. "Might be that I've seen yer friend."

"He would have passed by here a good two months prior. A tallish Nord, young, with long fair hair. Carries a sword, looks like a mercenary. Probably came through here with a crotchety old man."

Wilhelm pretended to wrack his brains. In reality he was a little annoyed: the description matched that of many a Nord youth. Then again, there had been none of the sort to come through Ivarstead in the last few months, least of all with an old man in tow. All the old men that did come by were locals.

"I can't help ye," he said, "Don't remember anyone by that description."

The woman cursed under her breath.

"Very well," the Imperial continued, undaunted, "We shall settle for gossip. What news from the south and the west?"

"Its the same as ever," Wilhelm sighed, "The Stormcloaks trample the rift, the Empire is powerless to protect its subjects, monsters and bandits plague the Jerall mountains, the Witchmen terrorize the Reach. And not to mention dragons-"

"Dragons!" crooned one of the locals, Boti the farmer, who had been listening in on their conversation, "Lucky they don't see fit to buzz around these parts. Too damn quiet for their kind of excitement!"

He laughed drunkenly and scooted down the bar, closer to Wilhelm and the travellers. Wilhelm rolled his eyes.

"Let me tellya somethin' I heard about dragons, Wilhelm, goodly strangers," he continued, between hiccups, "Yesterday some fool woman, tall as a tree, said she was goin' to join the dragon-killers of the Reach!"

"Dragon-killers of the Reach?" Wilhelm asked, bemused, "Boti, your wife know you're here hitting the bottle? Bet she'd love to know all about the kinds of stupid you get when you reach the bottom of it."

"S'true!" he gasped, spreading his arms out wide, "She told me. Big woman, strong, carried a huge axe and a green sword! Tol' me rumors of crazy men! And girls too, sorry lady."

The Breton woman shrugged, unoffended.

"She told me that they were always recruitin' more dragonslayers. But only if yer smart enough to find them! And that they were usin' the Voice!"

"That's hogwarsh, Boti," Wilhelm said, "Only the Greybeards can use the voice, and you know it, fool." But he did not miss the meaningful glance that the Imperial shot his traveling companion. It was none of his business, he told himself.

"Okay then, Boti," he began, coming around from the back of the bar, "S'time to go home now." The man protested as Wilhelm helped him up, but did not refuse when he offered the drunk sod his shoulder and led him to the door. The snow was falling thicker now, so he walked Boti home. It was a short walk and the cold felt refreshing.

When he returned, the two travellers were muttering to themselves. He started towards the firepit to stoke the flames, but the strangers had piqued his interest, and his propensity for gossip won out in the end. He situated himself within earshot, pretending to concentrate on wiping down glassware while he strained his ears to hear their conversation.

"This was a stupid idea," the man was complaining, "If I stray any further than the Rift, she'll know I've run off on her and she'll hunt me down!"

"It was your idea in the first place," the woman replied, her voice cold and annoyed. "You wanted to help him."

"What, and you didn't?"

She paused; Wilhelm looked down, noticed that the mug he'd been rubbing was already quite clean, and broke out into an inconspicuous whistle as he picked up another one.

"The best way to help him is let him be," she replied; her tone seemed rather glum. "And who knows what he thinks of you anyways. If I were him, I'd keep you at an arm's length."

"You're here with me now!"

"I'm not him. But for the record…" she paused again. "I do trust you." Hesitantly, she laid her hand on his. It rested there for a moment; he seemed surprised.

He sighed. "You shouldn't."

"But I do. You didn't have to come back for me. The Gods know that they were going to do with me. I still can't believe you managed to get me out without pissing off Ma-"

"Don't say her name," he growled, "It summons her, or at least her minions. I swear."

She chuckled, but he didn't seem to find it very funny. Wilhelm wondered of who they spoke, but their conversation was beginning to make him feel uneasy.

"In any case, Drake," the Breton continued, "It's best if we part ways. You're endangering your life here with me."

"I won't try to persuade you otherwise," the man called Drake responded, smiling, "I know how that always goes. Where will you go instead?"

"To the north."

"Winterhold? Why? If I can't seek him out, you must. Go to the Reach!"

"I'll do no such thing," she snapped. "I hope those rumors are false. They certainly sounded far-fetched. And if that's where he truly is, then I won't have anything to do with him until he's left that place."

"Okay, okay," Drake said, waving his hands. "Nocturns's knickers. Why not?"

"Don't ask."

They were silent for a moment. Wilhelm left to deal with a drunken disagreement. When he had returned, Drake was pulling out a coinpurse and counting out gold.

"Planning on leaving?" he asked, frowning at them, "The snow is deepened and the wind has picked up. It's a long while to the next warm bed - and begging your pardon, miss, but you don't look fit enough to travel."

Drake started to protest but the Breton laid a hand on his arm and stopped him.

"If you think it prudent, barkeep," she replied softly, "How much for beds?"

"Just twenty Septims apiece. Will you be wanting separate accomodations, or-"

"One room is fine," she responded, looking at the Imperial with a sly little smile. A slow grin spread over his handsome face.

They left early in the morning, leaving the coin on the bar without so much as a note. Wilhelm wondered after them the next day; he surmised that they must be refugees fleeing something, most likely the war. He soon decided, however, that the fate of the strange pair was best left for only the wind to ponder, and by the day after had all but forgotten them. For even in the face of pillaging dragons, bloodthirsty elves, and the travails of strangers, life in Ivarstead, as in all of Skyrim, went on.

* * *

A/N: Under 10,000 words? and just 10 days later? Hard to believe. This is the end of Act 1 - the origin, so to speak. I know I've mostly stuck to the storyline but it will start to diverge pretty quickly. Thank you for reading! And please review, criticism is always welcome.


End file.
